


The Calm After the Storm

by brokskar



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: AU, Enemies to Lovers, Hockey AU, M/M, Sort Of, light homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:09:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28394406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokskar/pseuds/brokskar
Summary: Lukas Bondevik is an adored professional hockey player for the Bismarck Storm, with everything he ever wanted laid out just before him. After getting into an altercation with rival player Mathias Køhler, however, he finds himself on the opposite end of glory. Desperate to save face, Lukas must come to terms with the consequences of his actions and find what is truly important to him, before he is thrown from his pedestal for good.
Relationships: Denmark/Norway (Hetalia)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 28





	1. The Fight

Lukas loved the ice more than anything in the world. Being at the arena on game day could give him more adrenaline than any drug could, and he lived off the rush. As introverted as he was, standing before a packed stadium was an exhilarating feeling, the loud cheering like a familiar song to put him in a good mood. He lived for game days. He lived for hockey.

Sitting in the locker room, clad in his white uniform, stick in hand, he awaited the time to step out onto the ice for warmups, counting down the minutes on the clock. 

“Alright, Storm, listen up!” He turned to face the sound of the voice. Standing on one of the benches was team captain Basch Zwingli. A rather short character, Basch was nothing if not tough, and he had a natural talent for leading, making him the perfect candidate for team captain. Lukas hoped to be in his position some day.

Basch stood on the wooden bench and looked around at his team. All eyes were on him, like a group of schoolchildren looking up at their teacher. “Listen up,” he said again. “As you all know, tonight we’re up against The New Aces. It’s early in the season and we haven’t played them yet, so let’s start the ball rolling by kicking their asses tonight.”

A few sound exclamations echoed off the locker room walls.

Basch continued. “Focus on passing the puck more, get in close and try to score. Work together. We got this, fellas. Let’s get out there and play some good hockey! Let’s make Luke’s old man proud!” 

The room erupted in clapping and stick taps, making Lukas smile. When his father, the loved veteran player Lukas Bondevik Sr., unexpectedly passed a few days prior due to cardiac arrest, it was a heartbreak to the entire hockey world. But it was an even worse heartbreak for Lukas himself. He had been incredibly close with his father, and taken after him in every way. His name, his profession, even his hair took on a resemblance to the veteran’s from his younger days. 

The team began to rise from the benches and make their way to the door, funneling out into the hallway that would lead them to the rink. Before Lukas could leave, however, Basch approached him, having climbed down from his spot and put on his skates.

With a hand on Lukas’s shoulder, he asked, “You sure you’re good to be back? It’s only been five days.”

Lukas offered him a smile that wasn’t dished out too often. “Yeah,” he confirmed. “Only way to celebrate his life is to get out and play.” 

“What are we waiting for?” Basch asked, slapping him on the back with a rare smile of his own, and they made their way to the ice.

…

Warmups went smooth enough. They weren’t anywhere near as exciting as the actual games themselves, but Lukas didn’t mind all that much. While his teammates were occupied with stretching and trying to score on Ivan Braginsky, the goalie—or, the Czar, as he was nicknamed, Lukas liked to admire his surroundings. He used the opportunity to wave to some of the fans sitting up close, or sometimes toss a hockey puck over the glass to a kid bouncing in the front row, who would then smile wide and hug it close to their chest, turning to show their parents their new prized possession. He loved the fans probably as much as the fans loved him. Without them, the game wouldn’t be the same. 

He also took the time to survey the opposing team, trying to evaluate their strengths and weaknesses. The New Aces, they were called; an old rival team from South Dakota’s capital, Lukas knew they were rising in the ranks after only a handful of games, and on a winning streak. They would be tough to beat. Lukas grabbed a puck, shuffling it back and forth with his stick as he looked across the rink at the swarm of gray jerseys. He watched the Aces take their turn at shooting pucks, their names and numbers on the backs of their jerseys the only view he had of them. Matthew Williams, number one, was definitely the greatest player on the team, Lukas was sure of it. There was a ferocity in the way that he skated, and Lukas would be lying if he said he hadn’t been body-checked and bruised by the guy; more times than he’d like to admit. 

Tino Väinämöinen, number sixty-seven, was another good player. He was pretty short for professional hockey, much like Basch, but he played like a giant. Tino was famous, at least among the players, for his slap-shots that sent a crack through the air, the sound like a pistol firing. And, Lukas recalled amusingly, he was famous among the fans for his tendency to pick fights and yell at the refs.

Lukas continued shuffling the puck, maneuvering it behind him and between his legs as he watched the others. He caught sight of another Ace, the team captain. Mathias Køhler, number five. He hadn’t come face to face with the captain during a game before, but he knew that he was a monumental player. For one, he was good, and everyone loved him for that. He was also known for being one of the very few openly gay players in the league…not everyone loved him for that. 

Mathias’s sexuality made him a controversial figure in the outdated hockey world. So many people admired his bravery and progressive personality, while others literally protested to have him kicked off the team, yelling obscenities and looking away whenever he walked out with his rainbow-taped stick. Hence why Lukas vowed to _never_ come out himself, for fear of the same treatment. 

Before he realized, the buzzer rang throughout the arena, alerting the players that warmups were over and that they needed to vacate the ice so the Zambonis could smooth out the terrain before the first period. It was time to kick some ass.

…

Lukas was fucking pissed. He was seething with anger, and it took every ounce of self-control to keep himself from breaking the glass that separated him from the ice and the stupid referee who put him in the penalty box in the first place. He threw himself down on the small, cold bench inside the box and looked up at the huge screen hanging from the ceiling of the arena, watching as his penalty ticked down. Every second felt like hours. . Also on the screen was the looped replay of the fight, Lukas’s fist forcibly colliding with Mathias Køhler’s stupid fucking face in slow motion. This was supposed to be a good game, he thought to himself. Why’d he land himself in the box?

The game started out fine enough. Before the puck was dropped, the jovial announcer had introduced the starting players one by one as they ran out on the ice, the crowd cheering as the spotlight shone down on them. The staff had told Lukas to line up last for a special announcement, and he could guess why. 

“And finally,” the announcer boomed. “Let’s ramp up the energy for our star player tonight! On behalf of the Bismarck Storm’s team, staff, and fans, we offer our sincerest condolences to him on account of his late father, who impacted so many lives. We are also sending well wishes to his younger brother, who is recovering from an injury from his last game…”

At least they remembered Emil, Lukas thought to himself.

“Give it up, Storm, for Lukas Bondevik Junior!” 

He made a running start, dashing out on the rink at full-speed, the crowd screaming at top volume. He decided to copy one of his father’s moves; he got down on one knee, the ice still carrying him, his stick held high over his head. The audience went insane. The rush and fulfillment gained from the special attention carried him through the long processes of sponsorships and singing of national anthems, and he felt ready to obliterate the Aces. 

Or, that was until about halfway through the first period, when the Bismarck Storm was down two to nothing. The New Aces were tricky, and able to sneak the puck past the Czar within the first five minutes of gameplay. Lukas stopped dead in his tracks when he heard the buzzer declare the goal, and Køhler’s obnoxious celebration made him tighten his grip on his stick in frustration. 

The second goal for the Aces came just moments later, this time scored by Køhler himself, and assisted by Väinämöinen. Lukas huffed angrily. This wasn’t going well. He looked over at the teammates congratulating the man. Køhler took out his mouthguard to say something to another player, a name Lukas didn’t recognize. Then, like the bastard he was, he made eye contact with him, and flashed the widest shit-eating grin Lukas had ever seen. Even from across the rink, Lukas could see that Køhler had a missing front tooth, definitely knocked out during a game some years ago. That wicked, mocking smile sent Lukas’s blood boiling—he wanted nothing more than to beat the shit out of Mathias Køhler. 

Toward the end of the first period, the Aces were still in control of the puck, and were close to scoring yet again. Lukas was trying to help defend, although it wasn’t his typical role. He got ahold of the puck and quickly tried to determine who he could pass it to easily. Alfred looked like he was open… Maybe Ludwig would be better…

Stupidly caught up in his thoughts, Lukas was jostled by Køhler and the puck slid away from him. He jabbed his elbow at him in retaliation.

“Watch it, or I’ll knock the rest of your fucking teeth out!” He snarled.

Køhler let out a breath of amusement, rising to the bait. “I’d like to see you try,” he replied cockily.

And that did it. 

Lukas lunged at Køhler and swung. He grabbed him by the front of his jersey so he couldn’t escape, and just kept punching him, his left fist repeatedly driving into Køhler’s jaw, cheek, neck. Both of their sticks were lying idle on the ice, Lukas having thrown his to the side in order to grab Køhler, and Køhler having dropped his in surprise, hands trying to pry himself from Lukas’s hold. But his grip was strong. Lukas had managed to shake off his left glove, now hitting his opponent with the hard bone of his knuckles. He noticed that Køhler wasn’t really fighting back but rather trying to push him away. Too scared to hit back, huh? Lukas mused. He’s all talk and no bite. He hit him again.

A whistle blew out from the other side of the rink, and in the corner of his eye Lukas saw a referee skating over to break up the conflict. Køhler’s nose was crooked and bleeding, a trail of red dribbling down the front of his face, staining his stubbled chin. His helmet had been knocked off, exposing the rest of his head to Lukas’s blows. His sweaty hair was matted to his forehead. Lukas thought he looked a little unbalanced, too, his skates starting to slip on the ice. But he didn’t care. He was fed up with Køhler’s inflated ego that he exhibited during the period, and he was determined to knock it out of him.

He was taken aback when he felt a tight grip on his shoulders that hauled him away from Køhler. The referee wouldn’t let go of him, and Lukas wanted to resist it, but he was already in enough trouble, that he knew. 

“He started it!” He lied, jerking his arm in Køhler’s direction, where another ref was helping him stand.

“No, I didn’t,” Køhler slurred back, bringing a hand to touch the blood on his face. A few medics had come out on the ice, pushing their way through the rest of the players, who had stopped when they heard the whistle and crowded around the fight to watch. Lukas watched the medics guide Køhler off the ice as the referee guided him to the penalty box, where he’d have to spend five insufferable minutes as punishment for starting a fight.

The ref shoved him into the tiny box, and he growled as he was handed back his glove and stick, snatching them up fast. 

“He’s fine,” he grumbled at the ref, as if that would convince him to let him out. “I didn’t beat him that bad. He’s just being a wuss.” 

The referee ignored him, though, and skated away to direct the rest of the players back into the game. Lukas threw himself down on the bench. He could hear the audience cheering and laughing as they rewatched the fight on the screen. Hockey fans love a good fight after all, especially when their favorite player beats on their least favorite. 

Lukas put his head in his hands, feeling somewhat claustrophobic inside the small space. It wasn’t the first time he’d ever broken a game rule, but it hurt him so much more knowing that this was his first game after his father’s death and he wasn’t even playing it. He picked his head up again, not wanting any speculators to assume he was weak, and looked up at the clock on the screen. Four minutes remaining on his penalty. He sighed. Oh my God, get me out of here, he thought.

…

The second and third periods went much better than the first. Lukas had scored the Storm’s first goal, Alfred the second, and Lukas again for the third. He laughed with his teammates as he watched Kjell Oxenstierna, the goaltender for the Aces, stubbornly fish the puck out from the back of the net and hand it off to the referee, no doubt a scowl hiding behind his titanium mask. 

Køhler did not return to the ice. Instead, he had been replaced by another player, who was by no means as strong or skilled as the missing captain. Lukas noticed that without their captain in their presence, the Aces played much worse and were more prone to making mistakes. More accidental high-sticking. More icing. Lukas wasn’t going to complain though, for their visible weakness only made his team stronger.

By the end of the game, the Bismarck Storm had beaten the Pierre New Aces four goals to two. 

In the locker room, spirits were high. A win would put him in a good mood any day, but this particular win had Lukas feeling like he was invincible. As he began to put away his equipment, Alfred spoke to him.

“Luke, man, you were incredible. Thank God you got rid of that guy in the first, because their performance tanked after that!” 

“Yeah,” came another voice, Yong Soo. “That was one hell of a fight. You looked pissed.”

Lukas smirked at that. “I mean, the penalty sucked,” he replied. “But yeah, he had it coming.”

The room broke out into laughter, then settled down into more comfortable conversation. The players moved around the room, hanging up their jerseys, going in and out of the showers, zipping their training bags, ready to head out into the night. Once Lukas was about ready to leave, Basch asked from across the room:

“So, Lukas, did we make your dad proud?”

He didn’t have to think twice about it. “Oh, hell yeah we did,” he said with confidence. His team cheered in response. This victory was the exact right way to honor his father’s legacy, he thought. He knew if there was an afterlife, his father was looking down proud at the team. And Lukas was satisfied with that.

The Storm began to disperse, players wishing each other good nights and until-next-times and heading out the door. Lukas and Basch walked out together, likely the last players in the whole arena. 

“You played great today, seriously,” Basch told him. “Your two goals made up for the penalty time. You keep playing that way this season, and by next you’ll be captain, no doubt about it.”

“You think so?” Lukas asked. He knew that Basch was aware of his desire to be captain, and so the compliment made his chest swell a little with pride. Basch was in his last season as captain of the Storm, a position he had held for seven years. He was retiring from his hockey career early in favor of moving back to his home town in Switzerland, although he never gave anyone a clear reason why, not even his Storm teammates. He liked his privacy like that. But with Basch gone, a new captain would need to be picked to lead the team, and though he tried not to show it, Lukas desperately wanted it. He had amped up his workouts and training hours, and tried to communicate more with the team when on the ice, which for a long time he had struggled with. He had hoped Basch had noticed his dedication, and would recommend him to their coach, Arthur Kirkland. 

“Yeah, I think so. You’re not the oldest on the team, but Arthur knows you play well, and he likes you, so I figure you have a really good shot.” 

“I appreciate that,” Lukas said.

Having exited the arena, they bid farewell to each other and parted ways. Lukas clicked his car keys to remind him of where he parked, slid inside his vehicle, his bag getting thrown in the backseat, and pushed the key into the ignition. The hum of the engine brought the car to life, and Lukas drove it home feeling that all was right with the world. 

…

He awoke the following afternoon to his phone vibrating on the bedside table. Adjusting to the sunlight that was pouring in through the windows, he groggily reached over to grab the device. He was met with several notifications from sports blogs and apps, a few text messages from his mother and Emil, two missed phone calls as well as one voicemail from Arthur. He ignored the text messages without reading them, and instead opened the voicemail, the one that woke him up. As he listened to the voice on the other end, he scratched at his beard, pulling and twisting at the hairs, a habit when he was either nervous or lost in thought. Arthur didn’t call him often, and otherwise chose to communicate with him through Basch. 

Lukas listened to the voicemail. Arthur’s voice sounded tired, and almost disappointed. He heard something about the managerial staff…something about the Aces’ coach…something about Køhler… When Arthur wrapped up his message, his last words struck Lukas, and he was left frozen in his bed as the phone hung up.

_“I’m sorry…but you’ve been suspended.”_


	2. The Suspension

_“What were your initial thoughts when this happened?”_

_“I mean, I was just really taken aback. Shocked, y’know? Wasn’t expecting it at all. In all honesty it scared me a bit. I know that fights happen in hockey, but… this one was sort of unprovoked, like, there was no good reason behind it. He just decided to hit me. And he just kept hitting me, even when I clearly wasn’t trying to hit him back. I didn’t want to fight him, it was all him.”_

_“And so why do you think this all occurred? Was this a homophobic attack?”_

_“As much as I don’t want to think about it that way, I do feel like it was motivated against me. Like, I don’t think he would’ve hit anyone else on my team—he was staring daggers at me the whole first period, like he really had something against me. And I don’t know the guy personally, so there’s really no explanation behind it besides my sexuality. So, yeah, I do think it might have been a little homophobic.”_

_“So what does this mean for you? Are you afraid to go back out on the ice?”_

_“Afraid? No. But it just really concerns me how prevalent this type of behavior is in the hockey community. I’ve always known that some of the fans wouldn’t like me for being gay, but I really didn’t anticipate another player to act this way because of something that I can’t change—“_

Lukas turned his phone off, cutting the video short. Køhler’s interview about the fight was the top story on every sports page in the country, and Lukas had had to restrain from throwing his phone at the wall as he watched himself be vilified by the man. _Køhler thought he was homophobic? That had to be a joke, right?_

He was surprised how quickly the interview was uploaded; less than twenty-four hours ago, Køhler was bloody and borderline unconscious, struggling to stand on his own skates. But there he was in the video, totally coherent and healthy, giving an interview? Lukas took note of the sunglasses the captain was wearing indoors, a sign of having a concussion, but his broken nose looked like it had been reset and the bruises on his face looked like they would heal quickly enough. _See what I mean?_ Lukas thought, _he wasn’t hurt that bad. He’s completely over-exaggerating. And he wants to go and make me the bad guy?_

_And what did he mean, “it was unprovoked”? He got in my way, so I made him get out of it. That’s how the game is played._

He turned on his phone again, exiting the video and switching over to the dozen or so tabs open on his Internet browser, all with relative headlines: Mathias Køhler Gives Insight on Recent Fight; New Ace Captain Speaks Out on Storm Attack; Bondevik, Jr. Attacks Player, Suspended Three Games; How Homophobic Is Hockey?

Lukas skimmed through each article and blog post, each one highlighting parts from Køhler’s interview. It seemed that there was a general consensus among the authors, and comments left on the websites held a largely similar belief: Lukas was a closed-minded, homophobic dick. He didn’t even want to think about what social media was saying about him.

His phone buzzed in his hands then, interrupting his thoughts. He accepted the call and put his phone on speaker. “Hey,” he mumbled into the receiver.

“Hey,” said his brother’s voice. “I watched the game last night. And the interview this morning.”

“Oh, great,” Lukas replied sarcastically. “I’m fucking pissed at that guy. I mean, seriously, there was no need for an interview. Fights are not new in sports, Emil. This whole controversy is ridiculous.”

Emil just hummed on the other end. Lukas changed the subject: “You’re not still in the hospital, are you?”

“No, no, they released me yesterday. I’m at Mom’s,” Lukas didn’t miss how he hesitated before saying “Mom’s”. It's always been Dad’s place. 

“How is she?” Lukas asked.

“Eh, could be better, could be worse. She’s just been busying herself around the house, just in her own world, really. I don’t know if she even knows that her eldest son is homophobic,” his brother chuckled as he said the last part.

“Oh, shut up,” he bit back. He normally loved to joke with Emil, but he really wasn’t in the mood right now. 

Emil laughed for a moment more, then quieted down. “Anyway,” he continued. “My physical therapist said I could start training again, at least a little bit. Wanna hit the ice?” 

Lukas paused to consider. He loved skating, he hadn’t seen Emil since he was first injured, and well, if he didn’t go, he’d probably waste the day away online and plot Mathias Køhler’s death. It’d probably do him some good to clear his head. 

“Sure,” he told Emil. “I’ll see you there.” He ended the call and hauled himself out of bed to find his training bag.

…

The rink was always colder when he wasn’t in full uniform, and although he might be familiar to the feeling, the chill doesn’t stop the hair on his neck from standing up and tiny goosebumps forming on his skin. Pushing himself off the wall, he really underestimated how much he enjoyed just... skating. Not being weighed down by a heavy jersey or a clunky helmet, not to mention the mouthguard.

He skated a few laps around the rink before Emil stepped on the ice with two sticks in hand. When Lukas passed him he grabbed one from his outstretched arm and glided over to one of the many pucks he had tossed out on the ice earlier. Moving it side to side, he looked over at Emil before quickly passing him the shot, to which the younger responded by slapping his stick on the ground to stop it. Emil took the puck with him as he skated from the wall out to center ice. He aimed for the goal net, wound his stick back, and attempted a slap-shot, missing the net completely. His footing had been bad, Lukas noted, and the movement from his arms put strain on his back, which Emil was now clutching with his free hand. 

It was no surprise that Emil missed—he hadn’t trained in over a month. Before his season had even started, he was tripped in a practice game, fell, and twisted something in his back. He had spent a decent amount of time in the hospital enduring physical therapy, where the nurses reported that he was usually grumpy and spent every free moment watching the hockey channel on the small television in his room. 

“You sure you want to be pulling those moves?” Lukas asked him, half-smiling as he went to retrieve the runaway puck. He knew that hockey was just as important to Emil as it was to him, and that his brother wanted nothing more than to be able to play with his team. Emil may not have been on a professional team like Lukas was, but he was a good player who had serious potential of getting drafted. Once he could properly play again, that is. 

“I’ll pull whatever I want,” Emil said arrogantly. He waited impatiently for Lukas to pass the puck back to him.

Lukas did. “That ‘whatever’ is going to be your back again. Take it easy.”

Emil just grumbled to himself and took another swing at the puck. This time it made it in, after knocking off the side of the goalpost, the metallic sound ringing throughout the empty room. 

They practiced in silence for a while then, each brother sticking to one side of the ice. Lukas watched as Emil slowly skated around his half of the rink, shuffling pucks and occasionally shooting them, although much closer to the net than before, so as to not put too much strain on his body. Lukas made sure he occupied himself with simple techniques so he didn’t awaken his brother’s competitiveness, not wanting him to hurt himself again. They stayed in their own zones, enjoying each other’s company without having to talk with each other.

Lukas was about to score another goal when he felt something ricochet off the back of his skate blade. Looking down, he saw a stray puck that had made its way over from the other side of the ice, and looking up he saw Emil staring at him from center. He tipped his head to let him know that he got his attention.

“So,” started Emil.

“So,” repeated Lukas, pretending not to know where the conversation was going.

“What happened between you and that guy?” Of course. Emil loved gossip.

Lukas groaned. He almost yelled as he explained it. “It was just a normal fight! He got in my way and I fought him! Why does everyone have to make it a bigger deal than it is?”

“Hey, I was just wondering,” Emil defended. He tucked his stick under his arm and raised his hands in a sign of surrender. After a pause: “So you’re not homophobic?”

Lukas glared at him, hard. Emil was the only person on earth who knew that Lukas was in the closet. Lukas had told him one night when they were teenagers, after Emil had nonchalantly asked him if he was. He remembers stopping dead in tracks as they walked home from school, completely taken aback by the inquiry . But Emil was just that: nonchalant, and he took Lukas’s answer the same way one would when told the sky was blue, and continued down the road.

Emil laughed when he saw his brother’s glare. “I’m just joking with you, dude.” 

“Do you see how frustrating this is for me?” Lukas pulled a puck in with his stick, lazily dragging it around in circles as he thought about his words. “Like, there’s almost nothing I can say to this.”

“You could be honest,” Emil countered. “You could say, ‘I didn’t beat up the guy because he’s gay. In fact, I’m gay!’”

Lukas scoffed. “Yeah, like that’s going to work. They’ll just say I’m making it up for attention or something. Or for pity, which is worse.”

“People will believe whatever they want to believe, but only you know the truth, and you can share it if you want.”

“Where the hell did that come from?” Lukas asked, staring at Emil puzzledly.

Emil sighed and dramatically looked into the distance of the empty building. “The hospital was so lonely. I would spend days at a time with only my thoughts. At times I thought I was going insane…”

Lukas rolled his eyes at the exaggeration, but a smile was present on his face, and he couldn’t deny that Emil had a fun personality. Weird, but fun. 

Emil’s advice, if he were to call it that, loomed in his mind. He couldn’t just come out and have everything resolve itself. The media wouldn’t buy it, Køhler wouldn’t buy it—hell, he’d probably arrange another interview to slam Lukas for that as well. The fans certainly wouldn’t be happy, and he loved the fans. It’s why he played. He didn’t want to let them down like that, as stupid as it sounded. And yet there was an even larger concern.

“I want to be captain,” he said, looking down at his skates. He’d worked so hard, put in so much effort, just to have this blow up. Arthur was overwhelmingly concerned with the team’s image, and with Lukas’s controversy at the forefront of sports news, Lukas wasn’t so sure Basch’s confidence in him meant anything anymore. 

He looked up again, just to find Emil looking back at him, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Sorry, bro,” he offered weakly. “Hope it blows over soon.” 

With that, his brother drifted over to exit the rink. He sat down on one of the side benches and began to untie the laces on his skates.

“Done for the day?” Lukas asked, already beginning to follow him. It hadn’t been very long, but Emil had just recovered after all. 

“Yeah,” came the reply. “You’re kind of depressing. It’s hard to be around you,” the teasing, playful tone had made its way back into Emil’s voice, and Lukas couldn’t help but laugh. Maybe his reputation was damaged, but at least his brother cared about him, however bizarrely he showed it.

They changed out of their skates into their sneakers and walked towards the building’s exit, leaving the pucks scattered on the rink behind them. Lukas opened the glass door, letting Emil walk out in front of him. Instantly, he was hit with the cold of the evening, which was much more intense than the ice inside. The outside light that illuminated the doorway didn’t provide any heat, and he now wished he had brought a jacket with him, rather than just a long sleeved shirt. He stepped out into the North Dakota chill, releasing the door so that it clicked shut behind him. 

Then, footsteps. And his name was being called somewhere from the dark parking lot. Turning his head to the left, he saw a small crowd—maybe five, six?—of men and women holding notebooks and microphones and cellphones in their hands and rapidly approaching him and Emil. Their long coats and scarves trailed behind them as they marched forward. Even in the dark, Lukas could see that some of their cheeks were tainted pink from the chilly wind, indicating that they had been here for a while. They tracked me down and waited to interrogate me? He marveled to himself. 

This was not good. Lukas hated reporters and sports journalists. He hated interviews, even when he wasn’t the world’s most hated player. He wasn’t good at speaking, and the second a camera was pointed in his direction, he would freeze up. Since joining the Storm, he had always refused interviews when he could, unless Arthur asked him to. But this was way worse. They were going to ask him about the fight, ask if he was homophobic—what if they asked him if he was gay? Wait, why would they do that? He felt himself spiraling. 

And then the reporters were practically on top of him; they swarmed around him, managing to cut between him and Emil, who had been standing right by the entire time. Microphones were shoved in his face, and at the rate that they were asking questions he would’ve assumed there were dozens of them, not just five or six.

“Lukas, if I could just get a word in—“

“Mr. Bondevik, can you share with us—“

“Are Mathias Køhler’s accusations true?”

He could feel his blood pounding in his ears, and he was sure that their microphones could pick up the sound of his heart racing. He didn’t know what to do, what to say—they were holding out for him now, waiting for any answers he would give. But he couldn’t. He didn’t think he had done anything wrong, but the world seemed to think otherwise. All he wanted to do was leave, to be free of these bothersome reporters and their camera flashes that made his eyes water. He was frozen to the ground.

Maybe only a few seconds passed—although they felt like hours—when one of the reporters brought her microphone to her lips, her voice poised and curious. “What would your father say about this?”

Lukas felt the world come back to him, then shatter completely. As soon as he processed the question, his feet learned to carry him again and he pushed himself through the crowd, furiously making his way to his car. He threw himself into the driver’s seat and backed out of the parking spot as fast as he could, not bothering with his seatbelt and definitely not bothering with the lingering stares of the reporters who were probably still recording him as he drove away from the ice rink. He couldn’t even feel bad about leaving Emil behind to fend for himself (not that the reporters had come looking for him), but his mind was too preoccupied. 

The last thing he wanted to think about was his father being disappointed in him. He had spent his entire life following his father’s every move, wanting to be just like him. His father was the greatest person he’d ever met, a kind, sarcastic, entertainer of a man, and everyone had always told him he was the perfect embodiment of him. His father wasn’t the face of controversy. Lukas couldn’t remember his father ever getting suspended from playing. He couldn’t handle the idea that his dad wasn’t happy with him.

Stopped at a red light, Lukas let his thoughts take over. He didn’t know whether he was angry with the reporters for bringing his late father into this, or upset with himself for letting this all happen. In a fit of rage, he slammed his fists down on the steering wheel, and cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying my best for weekly updates; we'll see how that goes.
> 
> Thank you, Yeg, for being my editor.
> 
> And thanks to anyone reading :)
> 
> -Brok


	3. Head in the Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no, i've never seen high school musical

Lukas had a very vague memory from when he was perhaps two or three years old of his father carrying him out onto a frozen pond. It was well into winter and fresh snow coated the ground, covering the barren trees. The sun was out, making the white landscape so bright that he could hardly see his surroundings. He remembered being scared of the ice—it was cold and hard and could crack underneath them, sending them beneath the surface to never resurface again. He tried to move, but couldn’t. For one, he was restricted by his heavy coat, hat, and gloves that limited his movement; on the other hand, his father’s arms kept him in place, strong and secure. His father began to skate then, slowly, gently gliding over the pond. Lukas felt the windburn on his cheeks and clung to his father’s jacket, peeking his head over his shoulder to look down at the ice. He saw the lines that the blades left behind, and the sound of each step his father took, and was mesmerized. He stared at the ground, thinking that the ice was much less scary now, and only pulled his gaze away when he heard his father speak.

“Do you want to try, Luka?” 

Meeting his father’s eyes, he grinned and nodded his head, and was lowered down gently to the ice. The second his tiny skates hit the pond he slipped, falling on his hands and knees. His father had hauled him up again and, keeping his hands perched under both his arms, dragged him forward. It was a slow process—Lukas didn’t know how to move his own feet yet, and his father had to make sure that his son stayed moving without losing control of him. It took several minutes of balancing, but they made one full lap around the pond. 

“Look at you, Luka! Good job!” called his mother, who was standing a few feet from the edge of the pond, having joined her family after parking the car down the street. She crossed her arms and shivered in the cold, the wind blowing her yellow hair in her face. A slight baby bump was visible even beneath her winter coat and a smile was present on her face as she endearingly watched her husband try and guide Lukas around the corner of the ice.

“I’m skating!” He cried out, his voice high-pitched and giddy. 

“Yeah, you are,” his father laughed at his excitement. “Good job, buddy.”

Another memory came from a few years later, in which Lukas no longer needed his dad to hold him upright on the ice. Now, his father held Emil close to his chest and carefully skated around the pond as Lukas whirred by with the energy of any hyperactive six-year-old. He fell often, his brain not able to make his legs move fast enough, but he pulled himself up over and over and kept going. He had been given a beautiful blue hockey stick for Christmas, and he held it tightly in his left hand as he chased after the puck his father had brought for the day. Once Lukas had stopped for long enough to notice his father trying to set Emil down on the ice, as he had done to Lukas years before, he began to cheer on his brother.

“Come on, Emmy, you can do it,” he encouraged, and started to skate around the pond again as a demonstration for the toddler. 

As the boys were strapped into their car seats at the end of the afternoon, they were tired and hungry, but full of joy. Lukas kept his stick on his lap the entire drive home, tracing over the toe of it and gathering leftover ice shavings in his glove. 

…

The ground was cold and hard where he sat in front of the gravestone, his fingers numb and his eyes red. His tears had stopped but the pain from his memories remained, leaving his chest heavy with sorrow as he looked at his father’s resting place. The grave had been decorated with flowers and previously lit candles, as well as a cemetery wreath, trimmed with a bow that hung from the bottom. Fixed to the bow was a photo; it was hard to see in the dark, but Lukas shined his phone in the direction of it, bringing it into the light. The picture showed his father in his hockey uniform standing proudly in the center of the ice; next to him, Lukas’s mother leaning into his side; in front, young Lukas and Emil, smiling brightly at the camera. His father had one arm around his mother, and the other held out his stick so that the butt end rested on the ice and the toe was in the air, like he was holding a staff. Lukas was also holding on to his father’s stick. 

Lukas turned his attention away from the photo and back to the headstone. He reached out and rested his hand atop the granite; it was cold, colder than the night itself. Cold as death. He stared at the engraving on the stone. Seeing his own name staring back at him made him uncomfortable.the stone seemed to mock him for his slip-up last game, as though the remains of his career were buried with his father. 

He felt a stinging in his nose as tears welled in his eyes again. He put his head in his hands and allowed worry to take over. He remembered his father’s lessons to him, both on and off the ice, of being kind and fair. Lukas didn’t often take those lessons to heart as a child--always the rough player, desperate to prove his dominance—but now that his father was no longer with him, he felt a deeper shame for his actions. Would his father scold him if he were here? He didn’t know the answer, all he could do was dwell.

“Unnskyld,” he whispered into the dark night, wishing that things were different. “Forgive me.”

…

Nearly two weeks had gone by until Lukas was finally allowed to join the rest of the Storm for game day. He had sighed in relief when Arthur had cleared him to play, even if it had been with a curt nod and not an energetic welcome back. Not that Arthur was ever energetic, but still.

His teammates seemed glad to have him back, cheering him on and handing out fist bumps when he stepped on the charter plane. At least he knew he was welcomed among his team and not hated. 

They were playing an away game—some team from British Columbia, the Polar Bears—hence the need for the plane. That’s how most of the traveling was done when it came to away games, however when it came to the New Aces, only one state south, transport was provided via charter bus. It was cheaper, Arthur said. 

Lukas admitted that he missed the energy of the pregame locker room. Alfred always started chanting every five minutes to hype them up, everyone else joining in shortly. Yong Soo would tap his stick on the floor, and Jett would bang his fists on the lockers to make even more noise. They’d sing songs, or make up their own, and yell over each other until Basch finally broke it all up by telling them to get their act together. And the routine would start all over again a moment later and last until they went out on the ice. 

He may have been excited to play while he was in the locker room, but standing in the hallway waiting to go out on the ice had anxiety creeping up on him. He’d missed the last three games and hadn’t made any public statement about the fight the way Køhler had. He didn’t know what the people in the audience would think of him when they saw him in the lineup. He knew they wouldn’t cheer for him—he wasn’t on the home team, after all—but he silently prayed they wouldn’t boo or shout or ridicule him the way some over-the-top fans do to refs who make calls they don’t like. Or the way some did when Køhler had skated out on the ice with a big toothy—toothless—grin after having come out to the world. 

Hockey was confusing, Lukas found himself thinking more often since his suspension. Not the game, just the community. As he’s seen and heard, from Køhler’s interview to the various articles written about him, lots of hockey fans were homophobic. So many people had sided themselves against Køhler upon hearing the news that he was gay, and now that Lukas is the accused homophobe, people are rallying against him? It didn’t make any sense to him.

Lukas supposed that, despite all the negativity aimed at him, there probably were lots of others rushing to defend him, laughing at the topic, congratulating him for “teaching that queer a lesson”, or something of the sort. He wasn’t sure how much support he still had, as he refused to give into the temptation of social media during all this. However, the potential support and adoration from fans who only liked him because they hated someone else hurt him to the core. The thought of perpetuating hate in a space he loved made his chest feel heavy; the last thing he wanted to do was promote bigotry. 

He was once angry with Køhler. Now he was just angry at himself. He had acted like a fool and blown something way out of proportion. He still thought the fight was just part of the game—hell, every good hockey match has someone butting heads with another—but he supposed he couldn’t blame Køhler for being upset with him. He didn’t quite understand why the interview was necessary, but then again, he wasn’t the one who got nearly knocked out. If Køhler was hurt, then Køhler was hurt. 

He played with the end of his jersey, another nervous habit for when his gloved hands couldn’t scratch at his beard. He pulled at the black fabric—black instead of white for away games—with a sort of disgruntled look on his face, unease suddenly rearing its ugly head. . Part of him wanted to move on with his life and push all the conflict behind him, never to be seen again. Another part of him wanted to hide and stay far away from the mess of it all. ‘What would your father say?’ was a mantra in his head that wouldn’t leave him in peace since he had run away from those reporters at the ice rink. What would your father say to you hiding your face from everyone and keeping quiet? What would he say to that? Go ahead, Lukas, what would he say?

What would he say?

Lukas was quite literally pulled away from his own thoughts by Basch’s hand on the front of his jersey, tugging him forward. Apparently they had been introduced by the announcer (not one by one as before, but rather announced as a team) and the Storm had begun to move out onto the ice. When Lukas didn’t follow his comrade in front of him, Basch, who was standing behind him, took it upon himself to step around him and drag him to the ice. Lukas stumbled for just a moment, but caught himself, and tried to regain any composure he could, although his mind was still foggy from the onslaught of mixed emotions.

Basch let go of him before making it to the entrance and running out and quickly picking up a biscuit for warmups. Lukas bounced a little on his blades, as if to psych himself up, and ran as fast as he could onto the rink. His first blade hitting the ice was euphoric; he had truly missed this. Those two weeks in which he was suspended proved to be torture. Sure, he had skated with Emil, but nothing could compare to being with his team on game day. 

When warmups had concluded and they were waiting again to return for the start of the first period, Basch seemed to take note in his lost demeanor. 

“You alright?” He asked simply, in an undertone so that no other teammates could eavesdrop, although it wasn’t necessary considering the volume some players could raise their voices to. Lukas nodded in return.

He could tell Basch wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t press the matter much further. “Don’t become a duster, Lukas,” his captain warned. “We need you out there.”

The dusters, of course, didn’t garner much respect from players, coaches, or fans, although it wasn’t by any fault of their own. They were the players who, as their title suggests, collected dust from sitting on the bench throughout each and every game, never being called for the starting lineup, and only put in when absolutely necessary. The unpopular ones, the unknowns. Lukas would not let himself succumb to that status.

…

By the second period, neither team had managed to score. This left the players on the ice, and the ones on the bench, antsy, finding it harder to remain focused the longer their exertions resulted in nothing. Lukas’s team had attempted multiple shots on the Polar Bears’ goalie, but they had significantly less control over the puck. Turnovers occurred often; one second, Lukas or a teammate was skating down the rink with the puck, the next it seemed to disappear, magically taken away by an opponent and now heading in the opposite direction. The pace of the game was driving Lukas mad. 

By the third period, when there were still no goals, Lukas was beyond frustrated. They needed a win. During his absence, the Storm had faltered, and the three games that Lukas had missed were losses. They needed a win. But time was running out. 

Close to the twelve minute mark, Yong Soo passed him the puck, and he wasted no time in racing to the net. The goalie was perched in a squat, ready for him; gloved hand open and leg pads prepared to close together to stop the play. It didn’t scare him. I’m going to score, he told himself, as he swerved in and out of Polar Bear players. I’m going to score, he repeated.

He didn’t.

In his high-speed chase toward the net, he overestimated how fast he was really going, and how fast he could stop. He realized too late, and desperately tried to slow himself down, digging his blades into the ice and twisting sideways. Ice shavings flew upward and covered the rink in a new layer of white. Throwing himself into the new position, plus the weight of his equipment, sent him to the floor. He slid into the goalie’s circle of the rink, crashing into the man there and pushing both of them quite literally into the net. The force from the impact caused the goalposts to be knocked out from where they were screwed into the ice. Lukas winced as he banged his elbow on one of the posts. 

The whistle was blown to stop the clock. Players from both teams were gathering round the sight of two tall men stuck in a tiny net. Just like his last game, all eyes were on Lukas, who struggled to pull himself from his cramped position. Two referees were shimmying the goal net, eventually managing to pull it back from where it trapped Lukas and his opponent. As he began to stand up, the goaltender shoved him from behind, hard, so that Lukas promptly ended up on his hands and knees on the ice. 

“Don’t go throwing me out of the game now,” snarled the goalie. Lukas was faced away from him, but he knew the man was standing over him now. “I see how you like to play.”

Lukas stood up once more, and adjusted his helmet. He subconsciously checked to make sure his mouthguard was still there; it was, thank god. He really didn’t need to lose any teeth right now. 

Sighing, he glumly took his stick back from Basch, who must have picked it up while Lukas was struggling in the net. Honestly, he hadn’t even realized he had lost it. He was about to mutter a thanks when he noticed the puck that he’d just had control of stranded in the corner, laying still like a dead animal. He became angry, but remained outwardly calm. He couldn’t blow up and get himself suspended again. He just kept staring at the puck, this most recent failure stuck in his head. And like a dead animal, he didn’t want to look at it, but he couldn’t look away.

…

The game ended one to nothing in the Polar Bears’ favor. They had snagged the first and final goal of the game with three minutes left on the clock. Lukas followed his teammates in shaking the victors’ hands before trudging back to the locker room, defeated. 

For once, the locker room was quiet, besides the noises of shuffling bags and clinking skate blades. Occasionally someone would cough or clear their throat, but no one spoke. They were exhausted; Lukas saw everyone’s faces red and eyes drooping. He knew they’d rather be home than in Canada—he did, too. 

He had just finished tying his sneakers when Arthur walked into the room. He was carrying his cellphone in one hand and a heavy clipboard in the other. It had bundles of papers attached to it, their edges curled in from being carelessly looked after. The clipboard held schedules, rosters, health reports, all kinds of stuff. Or, at least, that’s what Lukas expected the clipboard to hold—Arthur never let anyone see it.

Arthur briefly looked at the clipboard before looking around the room of players. “Alright men, listen up,” he shouted, so that his voice bounced off the walls. He stood straight and commanding, like an army general giving orders to his soldiers. That is, if army generals wore suits and ties to battle.

“Okay, we’re heading home tonight, and on Saturday we have another game at our rink. We’re playing the New Aces again.” Oh, God, Lukas thought. Not them. The Storm had managed to beat them last time, but that was only because Lukas had beat their captain to a pulp, which he definitely could not do again, if he wanted a career afterwards. 

“Let’s make sure that we play better on Saturday than we did tonight. That’s all I have to say for now. Let’s get out of here,” Arthur continued. His voice, although strong and loud, had a tired tone to it, and Lukas could tell that the night had been an embarrassment to the coach. He could imagine Arthur turning away and cringing when he collided with the goalie and got stuck in the net. The thought made him want to cringe, too. 

With the conclusion of Arthur’s announcement, the Storm began to move out of the locker room for the final time that night. Lukas stood from the bench he was sitting on and was met with Arthur approaching him. He looked even more tired up close.

“I need you to do something, Bondevik,” he started, his voice much quieter now that he was speaking one on one.

“Yes, coach.”

“I need you,” he repeated, “to apologize to Mathias Køhler before Saturday’s game is over.”

What?

Before he could voice his question aloud, Arthur answered him. “I know,” he said, putting his hands out in front of his chest in an exasperated sort of way, recognizing Lukas’s confused face. “I know. Wesselink has been on my back since…you know, and he’s not satisfied with the suspension. He wants his team to be respected, I guess, that’s all he said. Just…please, apologize to the guy so we can push this all behind us. Do it online, do it in person, I don’t care. But this will make both of our lives easier.”

With that, he turned and walked away, clipboard under his arm, papers curling in even more. Lukas remained in the empty locker room for just a moment, wondering how the hell he was going to talk to the guy he beat the shit out of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all!!
> 
> -Brok


	4. Face-Off

For once, Lukas was not looking forward to game day. He had decided that he would apologize to Køhler in person (social media just wasn’t really his thing), but wasn’t exactly sure how he would go about it. Regardless, he assured himself (and Arthur) that it would be done today. If not, he could kiss his future captainship goodbye. 

The arena felt colder than usual, and he tried his hardest not to shiver in the locker room, listening to his teammates joke around him and hoping that they didn’t notice his knee bouncing in anticipation. Part of him felt sick. What was he so nervous for?

In an attempt to calm his nerves, Lukas unzipped his training bag and dug through its contents, searching for his water bottle. When it didn’t seem that he brought it with him, he sighed in an aggravated manner, a growl in the back of his throat. He went back into his bag, this time in search of his wallet so he could at least get something to drink from the hallway vending machine. He pulled it out from the depths— _Thank heavens I didn’t forget this_ , he thought—and slipped out of the locker room. 

He took off one of his gloves and tucked it under his arm , but stopped in his tracks. From around the corner, he could hear fragments of a conversation. Standing roughly twenty feet away from him was Mathias Køhler, turned partially away from him and dressed in his team’s colors; a gray jersey with a maroon stripe over the collarbone and shoulders. , gray skating pants, and a matching helmet with a symbol of a spade on the back. The person he was talking to Lukas could not see, hidden from his sight by the wall. Lukas forgot about the vending machine for a moment, distracted by Køhler’s conversation.

“Come on, Abel, everything will be fine. There’s no reason I can’t play,” he heard Køhler say.

“You were recently injured!” The other voice—Abel—returned furiously. Lukas recognized the voice. Abel Wesselink was the strict and serious coach of the New Aces. From his knowledge, Abel was the impeccably uptight Dutch coach who fought relentlessly for the highest standards for his team and wouldn’t stop pestering Arthur about Lukas’s misconduct. 

“That was over two weeks ago!” Køhler argued, desperation seeping into his tone. “They cleared me, I’m good as new.”

It was silent for a moment then, and although Lukas couldn’t really see them, he knew there must be an intense stare-down happening. Køhler stood tall and proud, like he always did, refusing to back down. 

A sigh from around the corner. “I really don’t know if you should be out there tonight,” Abel said, softer this time, so that Lukas almost couldn’t hear him. “I mean, what if…”

“Don’t worry about him,” Køhler interjected. “I promise I’ll be fine.”

Lukas felt a little embarrassed listening in on a conversation that was kind of about him. Considering he hasn’t apologized yet, he supposed he understood Abel’s concern of Køhler and him running into each other again. But he still didn’t like being talked about behind his back. 

Another sigh. “Fine. You can play. But don’t think for a second that I won’t pull you if things get rough.”

This time Køhler sighed, in relief. He began to ramble out a series of thank-you’s until Abel stopped him.

“Tie your skates and get back to the locker room,” he said, having emerged from around the corner and walking down the other end of the hall, thankfully not having seen Lukas. He saw Køhler look down at his skates, which were indeed untied, and bend over to lace them together. Seeing that the two of them were alone in the hallway, Lukas seized the opportunity, although the hammering in his heart dictated not to.

“Hey,” he called out awkwardly. He waited as Køhler whipped around to face him, startled by his presence.

His look of bewilderment quickly disintegrated into a look of contempt, and Lukas’ determination turned to embarrassment. Køhler’s eyebrows were knit together as he stared at him, eyeing him up and down. 

“Hey,” he replied, but it was curt and held no emotion, which Lukas was not expecting. He knew the guy wasn’t happy with him, but he didn’t expect him to be, well, rude. He was hoping Køhler was the kind of person to not hold onto grudges for long. 

Before Lukas could get another word in, Køhler turned and walked down the hall, his tall and strong stance now replaced by tight shoulders and a slight forward slouch, not bothering to mask his discomfort. Lukas watched him as he moved away, his skates stepping quietly on the thin black carpet until he disappeared from view, leaving Lukas alone in the hallway.

…

When the game started, he was a bit surprised, albeit grateful, to see so many audience members cheer him on as he was announced. It was his first time playing at home since before his suspension, and he had found himself wondering on several occasions if there would be any noise for him at all when he walked out on the ice again. Sure, he thought the crowd was ever so slightly quieter for him than usual, but maybe it was all in his head. 

Within minutes the Storm had earned their place on the scoreboard, thanks to Ludwig’s goal, assisted by Lukas. He swerved around the back of the goal net to greet Ludwig with a fist-bump before quickly moving out of the way to let the rest of the players nearly dog-pile him. The crowd was yelling, Arthur was clapping on the side-lines and the Aces were pouting. The referee called them back to position, and they started again.

Everyone performed their best throughout the game, until sweat dripped down their faces and the hair sticking out the bottom of their helmets was damp and curled. Lukas’s heart pounded in his chest as he chugged the water bottle from the vending machine (yes, after Køhler had left him in the hallway, he awkwardly remained there to get a drink), and when it was empty he had to borrow some poor duster’s bottle until he was quenched.

Towards the end of the second period, the whistle blew. Lukas slowed to a stop and watched as the refs guided Matthew Williams to the penalty box for slashing. He grinned to himself upon seeing someone other than himself suffering in the “sin bin”, as many enjoyed calling it. 

He skated over to the end zone, where a face-off circle was. One player from each team had to face off in the red circle. With Williams in the box, the Storm had the upper hand for about two minutes with more players on the ice. And they were much closer to the net. Lukas felt a light push on his back and turned around.

“You should do the power play,” said Jett, with a suspiciously sinister smile. 

Lukas was confused. “But don’t you usually do this?” He asked him. Jett played center position, and always took on the role of facing off the opponent. Why did he want Lukas to do it?

Jett was still grinning at him, so Lukas turned around again to see what was so humorous. Oh.

Standing near the circle was none other than Køhler, glancing impatiently back and forth between Lukas and Jett and the referee, probably thinking, “Uh, hey, are we doing this or not?”

“Oh, you’re an ass,” Lukas threw back at Jett, not even looking at him, but rather looking at his supposed enemy that he still needed to apologize to. Jett just slapped him on the back again and skated to his own position outside the circle. 

Both Køhler and the referee were staring him down now, Køhler with a look of irritation and the ref with one of exasperation, as if he were just about ready to quit this gig and head home. This game was taking too long. 

Half sighing, half nervously exhaling, Lukas made his way to the circle, standing across from Køhler. The begrudging referee stood in between them, just out of their way. . He held the black puck between his thumb and middle finger, arm hovering a few feet above the ice. Køhler bent over into position, his hands firmly tightened around his stick, his eyes locked on the puck in front of him. Lukas copied his stance, although leaning forward he caught a glimpse of his opponent’s stick, the one with the rainbow tape around the toe. It was peeling and scuffed, and darkened from excessive use, and he found himself wondering how often Køhler had to replace it.

Caught in a daze, he almost missed the referee clear his throat. “Are you ready, Storm?” He asked impatiently, and Lukas nodded. “Yes, we’re ready,” he found himself saying.

“Ready, New Aces?” aimed at Køhler.

“Yes, sir,” was the reply.

It was only a few more seconds before the referee let the puck fall from his fingers, and once it hit the ice both Lukas and Køhler jumped for it. Their sticks collided, knocking the puck out of place. Lukas scrambled for it, in the process bumping shoulders and clinking helmets with Køhler. He resisted the urge to shove him. Then Køhler shot off in pursuit of the puck, which had been taken by another player. 

Lukas pushed himself off the ice and raced after him. The puck flew around the rink, knocked from person to person like a pinball. They had started in the Aces’ defensive zone—now they were traveling into the Storm’s territory. Lukas watched intensely as the puck was passed from Køhler to Väinämöinen, to Køhler again. He watched as Køhler moved in on the net and took a shot. The puck slid toward the net just to be trapped under the glove of the Czar. Lukas sighed in relief and slowed to a stop as a referee stopped the play and came to collect the disc. The crowd of Storm fans cheered at the stoppage, and Lukas looked around at all the people whistling and clapping in pure elatedness. Across the ice, he saw Køhler hoist his legs over the short wall that separated the players’ bench from the ice. The captain plopped himself down next to a teammate and took a swig from a sports bottle, a glum look on his face, eyes cast downward and shoulders slumped. A look of complete disappointment, the exact opposite expression of when he had scored a goal in their first game against each other, and for a moment Lukas felt pity. 

Another player was sent out to replace Køhler while he took his break. He took another sip from his bottle as Abel Wesselink stood behind him, leaning over to talk into his ear. Lukas couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Køhler waved him off a moment later. Wesselink stood straight again, flattened out the creases in his gray suit, and looked forward, locking eyes with Lukas. Immediately he turned his head, embarrassed at being caught staring, and rushed toward the center of the ice where they were about to drop the puck again. Part of him wanted to sit down, too, but he wouldn’t let himself, no matter how hard it became to focus on the game happening around him.

The game had been tied for a majority of the duration, but in the end the Storm had pulled forward, making the score three to two. The winning goal—scored by Lukas himself—was beautiful, the puck flying through the air to hit the upper corner of the net. Kjell Oxenstierna hadn’t even seen it coming. He allowed himself to be engulfed by his teammates, receiving pats on the back and shakes of his helmet all around. In the hurricane of players, he briefly caught sight of the Aces sitting on their bench, all looking on scornfully. All but one, that was. For just a second, Lukas saw Køhler slip away from the rest of his team, shoulders still slumped as he made his way to the hall that led to the away team’s locker room. Was he still hurt? Or sick? Why did he seem so upset?

In the locker room, Lukas wanted to change as quickly as possible and leave, hoping to catch Køhler before he got on his bus. However, he couldn’t escape the seemingly endless conversations that were being thrown his way, and he was running out of politely vague responses, wondering why Alfred couldn’t see that he wasn’t interested in whatever it was that he was rambling on about. He loved his team, but sometimes he needed to be away from them.

Once he had hung up his jersey and closed his bag, he took the opportunity to run to the door. On the other side stood Arthur, clipboard in hand, probably coming to congratulate the Storm on their win. Lukas jumped back a little, not expecting to see his coach, and judging by the way Arthur’s eyes widened and his free hand flew to his chest, he was surprised to see Lukas as well, and especially in such a rush.

Arthur regained his composure, then spoke. “Oh, it’s you. Did you do what I asked you to do?”

Lukas let out a breath, annoyed. Or maybe disappointed. “No, not yet,” he told Arthur. “Is he still here?”

The man made a sound—one of partial disbelief and partial annoyance. “Their bus just pulled up to the curb, I think they’re about to board. You’re telling me you didn’t try to talk to him?!” 

“I’ll get it done, I swear,” he said, and with that, he roughly pushed his way past Arthur and ran down the hall to the double doors that led out to the parking lot behind the building. He didn’t care so much that he forcefully shoved his coach aside. _Hopefully he can overlook that when considering me for captain_ , he thought humorously.

He ran to the doors and stopped just before opening them. Through the glass he saw the New Aces in the process of boarding the charter bus, with some already in their seats and others making their way up the steps. He saw Køhler sitting near the front of the bus, slumped low in his seat, knees propped up against the back of the seat in front of him, which must’ve been uncomfortable, considering his height. He had his phone balanced on top of his knees, and headphones in his ears, with the same irritated, glum look he had when he missed that goal. He looked like he wanted to be ignored, or even disappear. 

Lukas stood behind the doors of the building, wondering what to do. He obviously can’t get on the bus and talk to him. Køhler doesn’t look to be in the talking mood, and besides, Lukas really doesn’t want to have the rest of the Aces around to watch him try to explain himself. 

But he had to talk to him, he had to apologize. It was Arthur’s orders, and considering what was on the line with the career he’s wanted since he was five, he needed to act. 

The bus doors were pulled closed. Then it began to move forward, slowly making its way around the edges of the parking lot. Lukas shoved the rink’s doors open and made a run for his car; it was parked close to the building, but not in the bus’s view, which was good. He was hoping no one would see him. He started the engine and threw his bag into the passenger seat, then stopped, conflicted. 

_Am I really about to follow a bus for three hours to South Dakota just to tell some guy that I’m sorry for fighting with him?_

Hands on the steering wheel, he looked up and saw the Aces’ bus stopped at the end of the lot. When it was clear that no traffic was coming, and the bus turned left onto the street, Lukas sighed heavily, and put his car into drive.

_I suppose I am._

…

The drive was stressful, to say the least. He shouldn’t be doing this, he kept thinking over and over. This is weird. This is stalkerish. Every five minutes he told himself that he would stop this shenanigan, get off at the next exit, and find his way home. Just forget the whole thing. Yet one by one, the exits rolled by, and he remained on the highway, always staying one or two cars behind the bus, just to be safe. 

His hands were white as they clenched the wheel, and he sat forward in his seat, more focused than he had been during the night’s entire game. The radio lowly played a classic rock song, but the tune never reached his ears. His back ached. Fatigue was setting in; he glanced at the illuminated clock on his dash—the black numbers against the blue background notified him that it was nearing midnight. He tried to blink his sleepiness away and keep his eyes solely on the road in front of him. 

On the outskirts of Pierre, the bus pulled into a parking lot that belonged to a darkened building. It looked like an ice rink, but in the dark Lukas couldn’t make out if it was the main building used for the Aces’ home games. Unable to follow the bus anymore (that would be especially weird), he continued on the road, pulling into a grocery store parking lot across the street. It was hard to see, but Lukas could tell that there were several cars scattered around the rink’s lot. He kept his eyes peeled for Køhler as the bus doors opened, and players started walking off. Some stood around and chatted, others preferred to get in their cars and leave. He spotted Køhler choosing the latter option; he only recognized him because his hair seemed to bounce in the moonlight as he moved towards his own car. He wasted no time in getting out of the parking lot and pulling onto the road, and Lukas did the same; he had come this far, why not go all the way?

Lukas tried his best to keep a good distance between his black car and Køhler’s silver one. With not many people out this late at night, it wasn’t the easiest job in the world. He drove slowly, hoping Køhler didn’t check his rear-view mirror often.

The moment he had gotten used to this sneaking and following around, he was hit with how crazy he was being. He didn’t have to do this. Well, according to Arthur, he did, but he didn’t have to do it this way. He could have sent Køhler a message online and been done with it. He could have been done with it days ago, but instead he was in a different state, creepily following this man to his house. Why? He racked his brain, trying to think of a viable excuse, something that didn’t sound childish, or vulnerable. _It’s more professional this way_ , he thought. _Talking in person is much more mature than talking through social media._

He was doing this to save his career, or at least to protect it, he repeated to himself. He didn’t really care all that much for Mathias Køhler. Sure, seeing him look all sad at missing a goal and sitting alone on a bus had affected Lukas in a small way, but that was just how human beings worked. They sympathized with others, that’s all. It’s not like Lukas was obsessed with him or anything.

He wasn’t obsessed with him, which was exactly why he was pulling into his driveway behind him and shutting off the engine. He remained in his car for a moment, still unsure of what he was going to say to him. He had had three and a half hours to think of a decent apology and came up with nothing. It was wrong to be here, he realized, but he couldn’t quite leave now. That would, objectively, be even weirder. 

He only got out of his car once he heard the door to Køhler’s car click shut. Climbing out of the driver’s seat, he came face to face with Køhler once again. He still couldn’t see well in the dark, but he thought that his face had a look of nervousness, even borderline terror. 

Awkwardly, Lukas reached his arm up to rub at the back of his neck. The quick movement triggered an outside light to come on, and both of them flinched at it, taken by surprise . Then Køhler’s face relaxed and his shoulders dropped from their tensed position, like he had thought Lukas was a monster, and was just realizing he wasn’t. 

“Oh, oh my God, it’s just you,” Køhler breathed out, turning his exhalation into a laugh. “I thought— I thought someone was tracking me down to kill me.” 

His chuckling continued for a minute, and Lukas dared not to move. Køhler spoke again: “Did you track me down to kill me?” 

Lukas stared at him, moving his hands to his coat pockets. “Uhh, no,” he replied. 

“Okay, just making sure. It’s happened before… So, um, why are you here, exactly?”

Lukas took a deep breath and released it. “I needed to talk to you,” he started, and then didn’t know how to finish. 

Køhler clicked a button on his car keys, locking the doors with a beep, and walked over to brick stairs that led to his home’s entrance. He fit a key through the lock on the mahogany door and twisted, until it swung open into darkness.

“What are you doing?” Lukas found himself asking stupidly.

Køhler turned to face him from the doorway. “I’m going inside. It’s one o’clock in the morning, and it’s freezing. So if you have something to say, you best say it in here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you Yeg, and thank y'all as well.
> 
> I am officially back in school so that posting-once-a-week thing is unlikely, but I have my plans for this story worked out, so it'll get done.
> 
> Appreciate y'all.
> 
> -Brok


	5. Two Men and a Broken Hockey Stick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shamefully plugs tumblr because i want to be more active there: @brokskar

The entryway was dark, and Lukas awkwardly closed the door behind him as Køhler went for the light switch. With a flick, he could see again, the warm yellow engulfing the foyer. Well, it wasn’t so much a foyer as it was a very short hallway. Against the right wall stood a wooden console table, which looked cleaned and polished. Underneath was a rug with a mountain of shoes . Køhler leaned against the other wall to peel off his white sneakers, adding them to the pile. Next he shrugged off his coat to hang on one of the four hooks fastened to the wall. He hung his keys on another hook, then turned to Lukas.

“Can I take your coat?” he asked politely. 

Lukas, hoping this wouldn’t take too long, rejected. “I think I’ll keep it on,” he replied, his voice sounding small and timid.

Køhler nodded. “Please,” he said, this time gesturing at Lukas’s feet, an invitation—no, a request—for him to remove his shoes. 

Lukas did as he was told, taking off his own sneakers, treading on the heels with his toes. He didn’t mind too much, considering he had the same rule in his house. He left the shoes on the edge of the rug, so that they stuck out a bit from under the table. Maybe a slight tripping hazard, but he didn’t want to mix his belongings in with Køhler’s. 

That done, he padded down the hall to the main room, where Køhler had wandered off to, flicking on more lights as he passed them. The house had a very open concept to it, with the kitchen, living room and dining room all in the same relative space. The walls were painted a light gray with a white trim wrapped around. The house seemed to be only one floor; Lukas assumed the room in the back was a bedroom. It was a nice place—not very large or expensive, but still elegant and comfortable with a suburban feel to it. Very different to the lavish lifestyles most wealthy athletes chose. 

Lukas’s feet ached against the hardwood floor. He remained in the archway between the hall and the larger room, merely peering into it, too nervous to go any further without prompting. He wasn’t sure what exactly he should be doing. Should he just start talking, or should he wait until Køhler stopped walking around doing menial little tasks? Wiping down a counter, watering a plant, folding a blanket over the back of the couch. Should they be standing for this, or sitting? 

Maybe Køhler was just busying himself as a way to mentally prepare for whatever discussion was about to be had. He had been frightened when Lukas had appeared in his driveway, and most definitely wasn’t expecting an event like this to unfold at his own house. Lukas felt even more guilty for showing up unannounced.  
Finally, Køhler turned from his place by the couch and started moving back over to the kitchen. He looked at Lukas as he walked by. “You can come in. Coffee?” 

The word triggered something in him, and it suddenly dawned on him just how tired he was. He found himself blinking slower and longer and stifling yawns. He knew he wouldn’t have the energy to drive back to Bismarck without a boost, so coffee sounded amazing.

“Uhh, yeah sure,” he said, taking a few more steps into the house. He slipped his phone out of his pocket to look through his notifications while he waited, unsure of what else to do. He ignored Emil’s thumbs-up emoticon, sent after the game, while Lukas was in the midst of following the charter bus. 

A few moments later Køhler carried two steaming mugs over to the dining table, retreated to the kitchen, and brought back out a container of sugar, milk, and a spoon. He sat down on one side of the table, made of dark wood and polished, just like the console table in the hall, then looked at Lukas, who took a seat across from him. He looked at the glass jar of sugar.

“Have at it,” he was told, and he wasted no more time adding a few spoonfuls to his mug. He realized Kohler had only brought one spoon to the table. Across from him, Køhler was looking off in the distance, sipping his coffee without putting anything in it, and Lukas almost shuddered at the sight.

“You don’t actually drink it like that, do you?” he broke the silence, stirring the spoon around the brown mug. Køhler chuckled a little around his own. 

“I do, actually,” he retorted. “Unlike you, I drink it the way it was intended. Not adding all this crap to it,” he eyed Lukas’s beverage with disgust. Lukas shook his head, dismissing him with a hint of a smile on his lips. He tapped the spoon against the cup and accepted the napkin that was handed to him, resting them both on the table. 

“No,” he said, shaking his head again. “No, that is just…wrong.” They both laughed lightly at the comment, the tension of earlier slowly slipping away. Køhler seemed to be a really decent guy. Easy going. He had a nice, modest house that he took care of, a great career and a team that loved him dearly. Lukas could say he had all of those things, too, but what he didn’t have was a good demeanor. Sitting in this man’s house—a man who he physically attacked, and then basically stalked—he realized he could very likely be on the road back home again. Køhler could have told him to fuck off, called the cops, or fought him. He could have locked him outside, but instead he invited him in and gave him coffee. Guilt rose in Lukas, like water in a flooding basement. This was no longer about captainship or team image. It was personal. He had caused Køhler enough trouble, and he wanted to make something right.

“Look,” he started, setting down his mug. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.” A cliché line, but he was never great with words. Hence why he hated interviews. 

Køhler nodded and placed his mug on the table as well. He reached his arm over and offered his hand. “Mathias,” he introduced himself, his accent thick and blending the syllables together in a unique way.

Lukas shook his hand. “Lukas.”

A silent moment passed between them as Lukas gathered his thoughts. “I’m sorry. For everything that’s happened. You weren’t looking for a fight, and I pushed it too far. I should’ve just let it go. So I apologize. For that and for following you here; that was really creepy and I’m sorry if I freaked you out. I just felt like I needed to say something to you.”

Mathias leaned back in his chair. “I know my coach was bugging your coach about the whole thing, don’t worry,” he said.

“Well, I mean—“ 

Mathias chuckled again. “Honestly, Luke, I do appreciate it. Thank you.” He brought the mug close to his lips again and sipped. 

The nickname took him by surprise. It was a name that only a select few used, and they were the people he was close to. His teammates, his family. It wasn’t as though it was reserved for them, but they were the only ones to ever use it. His entire life he only ever went by Lukas, occasionally Luke, and Luka, when he was young. To hear a stranger (acquaintance?) say his nickname was different. He didn’t know how to feel about it.

Mathias was talking again. “I might as well apologize, too. For that interview, I mean. My coach kind of warped me into it because he was ticked off but…I thought the whole blame-blame stuff was stupid, I didn’t think anything would come of bashing you. Then I got all in my head thinking maybe you did hate me for being gay, for some reason, so I did the stupid interview. Sorry.”

“I don’t hate you for being gay,” Lukas said, but he found it hard to look at him. He started feeling anxious, started to sweat underneath his coat. He could come out to Mathias, he realized. He’d be a safe person to confide in. What would it feel like, to be open to someone new? Would it feel like a weight being lifted off his shoulders, or would it feel the opposite, like being crushed under an anvil?

He really wanted to shuck off his coat, but he held still, not wanting to appear frantic. His arms felt heavy where they rested on the table, barely touching the half full mug of coffee. He could hear his pulse in his ears. Finally, someone other than Emil could know this part to him, this secret that he’s kept for the majority of his life. It was so easy, just a few simple words, and the message would be delivered.

He said nothing, biting his tongue. Mathias didn’t notice the internal conflict he was having with himself; if he did, he pretended not to. “That’s a relief,” he said.

“If I may ask,” Mathias started again after a minute. Lukas finally looked him in the eye. “What was the fight for then? I mean, it’s not like I haven't been fought with before—“ he flashed a quick smile at Lukas, revealing the wide gap between white teeth, “—but if I did anything to deserve it, I don’t remember because I blacked out in the locker room afterwards.” 

Lukas almost laughed. “Ugh, I was sick of your gloating. You were way too loud and way too boastful. So when you got in my way, I decided to give you a piece of my mind.” He said all this with a smile, trying to be truthful but also without trace of anger. Mathias threw his head back and barked with laughter, the front legs of his chair lifting off the ground. _Too loud_ , Lukas thought to himself, but he couldn’t be mad at him. 

Mathias grounded himself, sighing out the last bit of laughter in him, and cleared his throat. They sat in silence then, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Lukas was surprised with how well the night (morning) was going. He didn’t feel the nerves or embarrassment he had when he had first arrived. Instead, he felt rather casual, and he assumed Mathias felt the same way. 

…

An hour passed. Then two. Mathias refilled their mugs and they continued talking at the dining table. They talked about their careers, their best moments. Mathias told him a story about his earliest memory—learning to skate with his dad. It brought Lukas back to a sunny, shivering day with a pond and his father. Memories of his mother standing off to the side, cheering him on. Of fearing the very thing he would grow to love. Of his father’s bare hands keeping him upright on the slippery surface.

Lukas found himself missing his father again. Not that he had ever really stopped, but his mind had been preoccupied with the ordeal of coming back to play and trying to plan an apology. He hadn’t given his father too much thought since visiting his resting place in the cemetery. He thought about going back for another look, once he was done at Mathias’s. 

They talked about their families and childhoods, Mathias telling him about his parents and Lukas sharing information about his own, and his brother. Mathias liked to talk, but he also liked to listen, and Lukas found that the guy was really growing on him.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Mathias said quietly when Lukas had finished retelling his own learning-to-skate adventure. He had never mentioned that his father was dead, mostly because he wanted to pretend that he wasn’t, but of course Mathias knew; he was at the game, waiting to be called out onto the ice, when the announcer shouted Lukas’s name through the speaker and offered condolences. That and, well, everyone knew who Lukas’s father was. 

Lukas learned that, although both him and Mathias may have had a shared experience when they were younger, the elder Lukas Bondevik and Rolf Køhler were very different people, and very different parents. Lukas Bondevik Sr. had a laid-back, go-with-the-flow outlook on life, and supported his kids through everything. Lukas failed a math test? No big deal, the puck’s waiting outside. Emil didn’t want to go to his dentist appointment? Well, what can you do. There’s always six months from now. 

Rolf, on the other hand, was a meticulous type of person. He had taught Mathias how to skate, but he was no hockey player. He was a lawyer, wore dress shirts and ties in his own house, and had mapped out his son’s entire life before he was even born. He had let Mathias play hockey throughout his youth, knowing that extracurriculars were great for careers and further education, but he had always told his son that it was simply a hobby, and that his real life passion needed to lie with law or medicine. 

Lukas felt grateful that his father had given him the freedom of choosing what to do with his life. Yes, he had ended up following in his father’s footsteps, like Mathias’s father had so desperately wished for him, but Lukas was never forced into hockey. He just genuinely loved it, and he was sure his father was glad. He wondered how Mathias ended up in professional hockey, but he refrained from asking, sensing that there may be a cold distance between the father and son, considering what Rolf’s plans for Mathias had been.

He found himself looking around the spacious room they were in. Mathias was staring over his shoulder, at the wall behind him, presumably lost in his own world and not paying him any mind at the moment. He turned his head toward the living room setup nearby. Two comfortable white couches were situated in an L-shape, one adorning a dark blue blanket over the back (the one that Mathias had folded earlier). A shag rug covered the hardwood, the same shade of blue as the blanket. Across from one of the couches was a television, and across from the other was a fireplace. The TV was a simple flatscreen, resting on a stand up against the wall. The fireplace was beautiful; the surrounding material was made of jagged stone, but it had a modern feel to it. The mantle was also made of stone, but it was smooth and looked cold to the touch. It was obviously the nicest asset to the house. Smacked between two small windows, it was the centerpiece of the wall.

Or maybe the centerpiece was what had been mounted above the fireplace. Lukas had eyed it several times since he stepped inside Mathias’s house, and was taken by the sight. Resting over the mantle, attached to the wall, was a simple wooden hockey stick. It had white tape around its toe and looked specially made. A prized item, if it lived on display like that. What was peculiar about it, though, was that it was broken. Snapped right in the middle. The two parts were held up separately on the wall, a permanent gap between them. For a while, he had simply left it alone. Now curiosity got the better of him.

“What’s with the stick over there?” He asked, continuing to look at it.

“Hm?” was the response, Mathias just being pulled back to the conversation. “What did you say?”

“The stick. On the wall. What happened to it?”

“Oh, that. A gift from my father.” 

That was all he said, and Lukas waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. Just when he thought the silence had gone on for too long, and he was about to change the topic, Mathias spoke again.

“It was a birthday gift,” he shared. “The summer before I went to university. I played for my school, I played tournaments. Not with that stick, of course,” he gestured towards the broken pieces. “But I kept it for good luck. It was the one present he gave me that I really appreciated. I love that stick, that’s why it’s over the mantle.”

Lukas listened to his story, but was still confused. “But how did it end up like that?”

Mathias inhaled, then exhaled, slowly. Like retreating into his mind for the memory was painful. Or a burden. 

“I was halfway through my biology degree, when I found out they wanted me to come play in the States—this was when I was living in Copenhagen. Anyway, I was halfway through my degree, which I hated, and there had been something I had wanted to do, but I wasn’t sure how it was going to go. Part of me wanted to finish my studies to make my dad happy, but a bigger part of me wanted to play real hockey, y’know? So, I made a plan: I’ll do what I want to do, and if it goes well, I’ll stay and get my biology degree; if it goes bad, I’ll leave.

“I went to my parents’ house the next day, sat them down, and came out to them. I told them I was gay, that I’d known for a while, that nothing was going to change. That I was still their son, all of that.”

Lukas felt his heart sink, having a bad feeling about where the story was leading to.

“My dad didn’t take it well. At first he didn’t say anything, and I thought that it’d be okay, but then he got up and went upstairs—that’s where I kept it at the time, in my bedroom in their house. You could hear the snap from downstairs. And the gasp from my ma as she realized what he was doing—.”

Lukas forced his eyes away from the stick on the wall and looked at Mathias. He looked truly upset; his face and eyes were turning red from trying not to let emotions take over. His muscles were tense. He looked like he was on the verge of falling apart.

Mathias went on. “Then he throws it down the stairs, and it’s in two pieces, just like it is today. Don’t understand why he’d destroy something he spent his own money on, but it doesn’t matter because now he’s yelling at me and my ma’s yelling at him, and I’m not even listening, I’m just trying to get my stick and get the hell out of there. I finally do, and two days later I’m in America, and I’m signing myself over to the New Aces.”

He cleared his throat then, and tapped his fingertips against the table. His other hand was rubbing under his chin, at the short beard that grew there. It was much like Lukas’s nervous habit. _Maybe we have more in common than I thought_ , he figured.

It was then he realized he hadn’t said anything, and that Mathias was just looking at the table. The only sound in the house was the tap, tap, tap of his fingers. 

“I’m sorry,” said Lukas quietly. “I’m sorry your father would do that.” He hoped he believed him. He felt a pang in his own chest; the rejection Mathias had faced was what he had feared for most his life. He’d always felt different growing up, so he made sure to mimic his father’s shadow, and never tell anyone the thoughts that went through his mind. 

“Have you ever tried to fix it?” Lukas asked Mathias.

“Yeah,” said the disappointed voice. “The glue didn’t hold, so I let it be.”

“Why do you still keep it?

“Because,” Mathias looked over at the stick’s place on the wall. “It’s mine. He may have bought it and broke it, but it belongs to me. So I’m going to put it on my wall.”

Lukas reflected on his relationship with his father. Things had always been good between them, seldom an argument or a difference in interests. Lukas had always felt that his father was there for him, that his father loved him unconditionally, but then again, their whole relationship revolved around the world of ice hockey. Every conversation was about a game, every trip was to the rink. A few times he considered coming out to his father, but each time he quickly dismissed the idea. It wasn’t because he assumed his father would be ashamed, but more so that Lukas was ashamed of himself. An internalized hatred. But now he couldn’t help but wonder: _would he accept me?_

“You got any crazy parent stories? They ever go off the walls like that?” Mathias asked him.

Lukas didn’t really give it much thought, but shook his head, drawing his mouth into a thin, straight line. “No, not really. My dad was always really cool and all. He was the greatest man I knew.”

He thought he heard a hum from the back of Mathias’s throat. Then a muttering, low and quiet, almost as if he wasn’t meant to hear it:

“At least someone thought of him that way.”

Lukas’s brow scrunched up, his face contorting into one of confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mathias looked at him, slightly wide-eyed. So Lukas wasn’t supposed to hear it, but he did. “I—Nothing. I just—“

“No, what’s that supposed to mean? ‘At least someone thought of him that way’?” Lukas raised his voice, and his gaze became more intense, and his hands were tightly gripping the wooden edges of the table.

Mathias stuttered. “I—I just mean that…just because you viewed him as a perfect person doesn’t mean he was. Him being a good player didn’t make him a good person.” 

Lukas was standing now, his grip on the table becoming impossibly tighter. He was leaning forward, casting a shadow over Mathias. He was pissed now, anger quickly taking over while Mathias sat in his chair, shielding his gaze away from his, but not shrinking. He didn’t crumble. He didn’t flinch when Lukas abruptly stood, the chair scraping agonizingly against the floor.

“What makes you think you can talk about my father like that?” Lukas asked, voice low and tight. 

This time Mathias looked him straight in the eye. “Oh, so your father is free from criticism?” 

Lukas didn’t respond fast enough, so Mathias continued.

“I’ve seen your old man play. He was good,” he started. “But he wasn’t who you thought he was. Maybe everything was fine and dandy when he was around you and your brother, but he wasn’t like other players.”

“He was better,” Lukas spat. He couldn’t accept this.

“He was a bully. I’ve seen so many of his games— seriously, the shoving, the slashing, the random fights! He picked on people he didn’t like without thinking anything of it. Sorry, man, but that’s not the game.”

Lukas dismissed him with a scoff.

“You don’t even see it,” Mathias said with a scoff of his own. He was growing exasperated. “Have you just blindly followed him your whole life?”

“Oh, sorry.” Sarcasm. “Sorry I stick up for my family. I’m not here criticizing your dad, who, as you’ve proven, was not a very nice person either.”

“At least I don’t idolize my dad and think that he’s some perfect savior.”

Lukas was practically on fire, his blood boiling in his veins. What the hell was his deal? Things had been fine, and then Mathias had commented on his father, and now they were almost screaming at each other like children. 

“That day that you beat me up,” Mathias said. “For, what? Trying to take the puck? That’s exactly what your dad would have done.” He pointed a finger at him, cold and accusing. “He hated to lose, and so do you. It’s pathetic.”

Lukas opened his mouth to retort, but was cut off:

“Everyone says you two are one and the same. That you’re his replica. And, you know what? They’re right. But it’s not the compliment that you think it is.” Mathias was standing now, too, his palms resting flat against the table whereas Lukas’s were still curled around the edges. Standing at eye-level, his words slipped from his mouth and slapped Lukas directly in the face.

Lukas shoved himself back. The table shook in its place, and the last few droplets of the now cold coffee leaped over the edge of the mug and landed on the wood, staining it. 

He tugged his coat from the back of the chair (he had ended up taking it off after all) and forcefully pulled his arms through the sleeves. Wordlessly, he marched back to the hallway to retrieve his shoes. He didn’t hear Mathias move until he was walking out the door.

It was still dark out, the sun not ready to face another November day just yet. Every outside surface was covered in a light sheet of snow. Lukas could still see where the driveway became grass and road, but he could also feel the soft crunch of white beneath his feet. 

Reaching into his pocket for his car keys, he heard Mathias approach the doorway. He simply stood there, with one hand on the doorknob and the other on the frame. It wasn’t until Lukas was opening his car door that he spoke for the final time that night.

“Drive safe,” was all he said, looking at the snow-coated road. 

_Why the fuck do you care?_ Lukas wanted to say. He didn’t though, only grunted as he climbed into the vehicle and slammed the door. By the time he had started the engine and wiped the snow off his windshield, the front door was closed, and he could tell that the lights inside were off.

He didn’t care, so he left. He didn’t listen to Mathias’s advice, going well over the speed limit despite the slightly hazardous conditions. He wanted to be home. He regretted ever making the stupid drive. He wished he had hit him again, just once before he left. 

How dare Mathias say those things about his father? About him? Hadn’t he ever heard of keeping your thoughts to yourself? Lukas had gone through all of this trouble to try and make things right, and now Mathias wanted to throw that all away and make things worse than before? 

If Mathias had wanted to get up under Lukas’s skin, he had succeeded. But Lukas would not accept being brought down so easily. Like Mathias had said, he did hate to lose, which is why he was willing to give the captain a taste of his own medicine. 

Going twenty over the limit, he raced home, mentally preparing himself for what was to come. Mathias wasn’t the only one who could convince the world to hate someone.

This time, Lukas would not lose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy.
> 
> Thank you! (and you, Yeg!)
> 
> -Brok


	6. Actions and Consequences

Lukas stood outside the building, leaning against the hard brick as he waited. It was an old building in downtown Bismarck, a journalist firm. It was almost eight in the morning, a few days after the fiasco at Mathias’s house. The few inches of snow that had covered the northern part of the American Midwest had melted away, leaving the sidewalks and roads damp in the aftermath. Lukas yawned; he wasn’t much of a morning person. He began to impatiently tap his foot against the pavement.

He had hatched his genius plan during his furious drive back home from Mathias’s. He sought retaliation—no, revenge. Seeing as how Mathias could gather everyone’s support through one lousy interview, Lukas didn’t see why he couldn’t as well. Mathias had some awfully profound opinions about his father that Lukas was sure lots of fans would love to hear. 

Moments later he heard the precise clicking of high heel shoes on the concrete, and turned his head to the noise. Approaching the building was a young woman, holding a coffee in one hand and a lanyard of keys in the other. Lukas leaned off the wall, placing his hands in his pockets and slowly striding over to meet her at the firm’s front door. She was who he’d been waiting for.

She smiled brightly at him, her blond bob bouncing on her shoulders. She wore a white shirt tucked into black pants,a matching black blazer and, of course, the clicking high heels. Lukas looked down at himself for a second, feeling like a fool in her presence. His appearance was, to put it simply, not great. He may have called for this meeting, but he hadn’t put too much thought into it. He stood there with his hands shoved into the sides of his sweatpants, adorning a T-shirt with his team’s name and logo on it; a thunderous cloud shooting out electricity and bolts of lightning, with the words ‘BISMARCK STORM’ printed above in big, blocky letters. On his head sat a sports cap, facing backwards, that also had the Storm’s name in the same blocky font. In other words, Lukas figured that he looked from a totally different world than the woman, even though he was sure he was richer. 

“Hi!” She greeted him, much too cheery for the chilly morning. “Lukas, right? Nice to meet you, I’m Emma.”

Emma Martin had once slipped Lukas her a business card after a game during the last playing season, along with an email and a phone number. She had told him she’d love to interview him on his playing, his technique, anything at all, since last season had been such a success for him. Lukas had simply discarded the card in a junk drawer, but never got rid of it. He had remembered the card while driving home the other day and left her a message, saying he might have a story she could publish. Considering Lukas’s controversy still had its space in the light, without any closure, he assumed that she would jump at the opportunity. And she did. She invited him over the very next day, bright and early, to have a chat. 

Lukas started to reach a hand from his pocket to shake hers, but her hands were full. “Oh, sorry! Just give me one second…” she fiddled with the keys and tried to find the one to the door. She let out a tiny “a-ha!” once she found it, and jammed it in the lock. With a turn and a click, the old door creaked slowly open, and she stepped inside. Holding the door open, she gestured with her coffee hand.

“Please, come on in,” she said with a smile.

…

Emma led Lukas to an office on the second floor. It was a small room with a white desk, some bookshelves, and a table and chair tucked into the corner. He wondered what the building had been previously used for, because he wasn’t sure it was for journalism. The brick walls gave it an industrial feel, and the floorboards creaked under each footfall, suggesting that it’d been constructed long ago. The windows looked like they were glued shut. He assumed that some business or another had gone under and the building had been purchased and repurposed. 

“Is this your building?” he asked Emma.

“Oh, goodness, no,” She replied, striding over to her desk and setting down the coffee. “Believe me, if this place were under my name, it wouldn’t look like this.” She laughed, looking around the shabby conditions.

“I just opened today, but a co-worker is coming in at nine, and then my boss at eleven. Sorry, I’m rambling! Here, have a seat,” she half-jogged, as best as she could in heels, to the corner of the room. She carried the simple chair that rested next to the table over to the other side of her desk, then retreated to her own chair. Lukas sat and held his hands in his lap, watching her set up her space. First there was turning on the computer, then digging through desk drawers, then answering an email, and digging through more desk drawers. It reminded Lukas of Mathias’s behavior when he’d first arrived at his house—the constant moving around and doing little tasks while Lukas stood weirdly in the hallway. Except, rather than standing weirdly in a hallway, he was sitting in a crummy sports journalism firm. 

At last, Emma pulled out a small black object and placed it gently on the desk so that it laid perfectly in between them. It was a rectangular shape, with a tiny screen and a few buttons on its side. 

“Now, I know when we talked on the phone you said you were camera shy…” she started, and Lukas wanted to interject. He most absolutely did not say that. All he said was that he preferred to not be filmed. That didn’t mean he was camera shy!

“So I won’t bring out any of the camera equipment. Instead, I have a recorder—it looks a little old-school, I know,” she gestured at the box on the desk. “I’ll start it, you can start talking, I’ll ask questions along the way. I’ll take notes, too, but the recorder will allow me to go back and review everything later. Just so you’re on board with everything. It’s like being mic'd up at a game.”

Lukas fully understood the workings of a recorder, but he didn’t express that. He simply nodded his head and licked at his dry lips, waiting for her to begin.

She reached an arm over the desk and pressed a button, the screen lighting up and beginning to count the passing seconds. Emma cleared her throat and began: 

“Okay, today is Tuesday, seventh of November, and with me today is Lukas Bondevik II, a left-wing forward for the Bismarck Storm. Number seventeen.” She looked at him then, clearly expecting for him to introduce himself. However, he was caught off-guard, and his brain performed mental somersaults for a moment before speaking. 

“Hi,” he croaked, then cleared his throat. Immediately he felt his cheeks burn, even though he knew no one besides Emma could see or hear him. 

She didn’t seem to mind his embarrassment, and continued. “So, based on our brief phone call the other day, I hear that there’s been some update to the Bondevik-Køhler situation from a few weeks ago, is that right? Would you like to tell me about that?”

“Yeah,” said Lukas, willing himself to relax. _There are no cameras, so just speak normally. This is a little out of your comfort zone, but you’re fine._ “After the last game with South Dakota, I actually went to Mathi—er, Køhler’s place to apologize for the whole fight since I felt a little bad about putting him out of play for two weeks. But, it did not go as expected.” He chuckled at the end of his sentence, at least in part to convince himself that this wasn’t so bad so far. 

Emma offered a smile as she typed notes on the computer.

He told the rest of the story, omitting details where he deemed necessary. He didn’t mention how nervous he was to talk to him, or Mathias’s broken stick on the wall, or how they had actually gotten along for most of the night. Lukas had to stop himself several times from saying “Mathias” instead of “Køhler,” and at one point he asked himself what the big deal was. Since the very first game, he’d been Køhler, because they were opponents, and not close enough for a first-name relationship. But ever since he had stormed out of his house in a fit of rage, his first instinct had been to call him Mathias, even though he was fucking pissed at him. What changed? Was it their heart-to-heart, right before the blowup, of Mathias’s unfortunate coming out, that made Lukas feel that the man deserved more than he got?

It didn’t really matter, because he was already fifteen minutes into trash talking him, finally letting himself talk freely as Emma’s nails rapidly hit the keys.

He told her that he had gone over for a simple apology, and before he knew it, his dad was mentioned and Mathias was slinging insults at the former player, leaving Lukas feeling humiliated and angry. 

“I just think it’s disingenuous to tell someone who just lost a family member that said family member was an awful person. And then implying that they might not have deserved what they worked so hard for. That’s how I took it,” he defended, placing a hand over his chest to display hurt.

Emma asked a few questions, but mostly kept quiet. “How did you react to Køhler’s claims?” “Why do you think he said it?” “Does this mean you two are now enemies of sorts?”

“I don’t fucking know,” he answered the last question. “You know, I went there to try to make things right, because it wasn’t fair that I was ignoring the problem, but now everything’s just so much worse.”

“I see,” said Emma, leaning away from the computer screen. “Well, unless you have anything else to share, I think I can work with what was given,” she smiled again, waiting to see if he would continue.

When he shook his head and concluded their conversation, she turned off the recorder and thanked him for stopping by. He pushed himself up from the chair and put it back in its designated spot in the corner, and saw himself out. He wondered how Emma would compose the story: would it be resoundingly in favor of Lukas, or would she attempt to keep it neutral, having only heard one side? Either way, Lukas’s primal hidden message to Mathias was that no one liked to be talked about in this way.

Letting the front door creak shut behind him, he breathed cold air into his lungs. He readjusted his cap, pulling the brim around to face forward, and walked home. 

…

At practice, a few days later, Arthur called him over, his voice booming over the slap of sticks and pucks and ice. Alfred and Jett had watched him skate over to the sidelines, but quickly resumed their drills as Lukas stepped off the ice. 

Arthur’s voice was terse and aggressive. “What the bloody hell is this?” he asked, holding up his cellphone with an open sports article. Lukas leaned in closer to see. Bondevik and Køhler Still Not Reconciled, by Emma Martin. Published the previous day.

Arthur didn’t give him the chance to answer. “Are you fucking serious? I ask you to do something and you do the exact opposite?”

“Hey, I did what you said,” Lukas defended. “I went all the way to the bastard’s house to say sorry. He’s the one who—“

“I don’t really care what he did or said,” Arthur interjected. He was having a hard time keeping his voice low enough so that the rest of the Storm didn’t hear. “What I do care about is you thinking you’re so high and mighty to go and tattle on the guy!”

“So what, I can’t defend myself or my father?”

“He insulted you, get over it! There are bigger concerns in the world than shit like this, and I don’t need you setting any sort of bad example for this team.”

“I’m sorry that I feel the need to stand up for myself. Although I cannot see how that is a bad thing—“

“Because the world doesn’t revolve around you!” Arthur exploded. His face was completely red, and his words were spit out through clenched teeth. It was good he wasn’t holding the clipboard at the time— the papers with their curled edges would have suffered an even crueler fate. 

But Arthur wasn’t finished. “Not everyone thinks you’re great, so be it. You don’t have to go after everyone to prove yourself. You need to let shit go, or see a fucking therapist, or something.”

Lukas stayed silent, processing. Arthur’s next words shot him dead:

“You can just forget about being captain.”

He looked up at his coach then, not even realizing he had been staring downward. He felt his eyes widen and every muscle in his body tense. This couldn’t happen, this was his shot, this was his golden opportunity. He couldn’t let it slip away from him.

“Arthur, listen, I—“

“No,” was the reply. Arthur turned away from him now, observing the others on the ice. “I’ve been dealing with your bullshit since the season started, and I’ve given you the benefit of the doubt, because you’re one of my best. But I can’t do it anymore. Get your act together.”

Lukas took that as his sign to leave, to go back out on the rink, but he didn’t. He remained standing a few steps from Arthur, who was now closing tabs on his phone. Lukas thought he heard a muttered “Now I’m gonna have to deal with goddamned Wesselink again,” under his breath, but he couldn’t be sure. 

A minute later, Arthur looked up again, but not at Lukas. “Either get back out there, or go home,” he said to the ice, but directed at him. Lukas decided it was in his best interest to listen this time, so he went back out, embarrassed and upset, not with Arthur, but himself. 

As he skated along, Basch caught up to him, sliding him a puck so they could pretend to be busy as they talked. 

“What’d he have to say?” the captain asked.

Lukas sighed. “He’s pissed off because of an interview of me sort of trash-talking Mathias Køhler, which I only did because he pissed me off by trash-talking my father. He also said I could forget about becoming captain.” He internally deflated, his words dying in his mouth as he said them, so that they were nearly inaudible. 

“Yeah, I saw the article,” said Basch. They had stopped passing the puck, the captain keeping it in place with his stick. Lukas hoped Arthur in his sour mood wouldn’t notice them standing idly on the ice, but they were close to the corner, mostly hidden from Arthur’s view, so he didn’t worry too much.

Lukas turned his attention back to Basch, who was digging into the ice with the tip of his blade. “You know, Luke, I don’t blame him,” he continued. “Arthur, that is.”

“But you were the one who said he’d—“

“I told you that you had a good chance of making captain before everything went to shit. Then you had the chance to redeem yourself, and it went to worse shit. I mean, come on Bondevik, you unjustly attack someone, hide from the public instead of apologizing, and when you do apologize you turn it around and make it all about yourself. That’s not what captains do.”

He did a trick then, scooping the puck up onto the toe of his stick and tossing it into the air. He repeated the act a few times, each time the puck landing perfectly on the toe. On the last toss he cast the biscuit over to Lukas, who didn’t react, allowing it to hit him gently in the stomach and drop to the ground. Lukas just stared at it.

“I think your time will come,” Basch spoke once more. “Just maybe not now. Maybe it won’t be with the Storm, you never know. I think you just need to straighten things out, first. There’s more to life than job promotions. Go visit your mother, get a girlfriend, do something that isn’t related to hockey.” At last he skated in the opposite direction, already calling out at Alfred and Jett for doing something immature.

Lukas forced his stomach not to lurch at the mention of ‘girlfriend’, but considered Basch’s words seriously. He had always been hyper-fixated on his career—about where he stood in the rankings, how many points he could collect in one game, how close he was to the next milestone. Maybe Basch was right—he needed a break, needed to cool off, needed to clear his mind before he could be ready for a higher position. He needed to make things right, for real this time, before he could go any further.

He realized he was still standing in the corner of the rink, alone, and that he had to get off it. His knees felt slightly weak, and his mind too troubled for legitimate practice today. He wanted to go home. Dreadfully, he skated over to the side bench where Arthur had his head bowed over the clipboard, as usual. He placed a hand on the half-wall as he approached, and opened his mouth to make his announcement.

Arthur beat him to it. “You can go. I’ll tell the boys you were sick or something,” he said without even looking up. Arthur was good at that.

“Thank you,” Lukas mumbled, about to depart.

“Be better tomorrow.” Arthur looked him in the eye this time, just for a second, before casting his glance downward again, flipping through the pages.

And so Lukas left practice early, for only the second time in his seven-year professional career. The first time was in his second year with the Storm, and that had been because he was actually sick. 

And so he changed his clothes and left the arena, his feet scuffing the pavement as he shamefully made his way home. 

…

Once home, he left his shoes by the door and tossed his keys on the kitchen counter. As he placed his bag back in its usual spot, the shelf inside the hallway closet, nearest to the living room, he felt a presence gnawing at him. A ghost of a feeling. Closing the closet door and turning around, he was met with nothing. Nothing except all the furniture in his house, the furniture that had been there for years, because he never bought anything new. 

The only thing new to the setting was a large cardboard box in the corner of the living room, tucked as far away as possible. The ghostly feeling remained as he moved toward it, in spite of himself. He had shoved it away on purpose. 

He got on his knees and folded away the flaps on top, revealing the contents inside. Folded neatly on top was a large blue jersey, with ‘BONDEVIK’ splayed across the upper back, and the number sixty in the middle. Number sixty, his father’s number. Coincidentally the same age he died. Lukas had always liked the number. He wondered if it’d ever become his, another step in living up to his father’s legend, but he had found comfort in seventeen instead. 

He held the sweater in his hands, the fabric cold from being stuck inside the box, which he had picked up from his mother’s house after the funeral. Inside the zero was the messy signature of Lukas Sr: a cursive L, and the rest scribbled. 

Moving the jersey to the floor, Lukas leaned over the box to see what else was inside. Signed pucks, hats and T-shirts from his father’s old team, a few photographs (one pictured Lukas Sr. holding the victory cup from the playoff finals over his head; he stared at that one for a long time). At the bottom, a bundle of VHS tapes, each one simply titled “Game-day” with a different date. Lukas wasted no time in sliding the first one into his player on the TV stand (yes, he still kept a VHS player, so sue him), and threw himself down on the couch. He heard the tape running in the machine, and then the television lit up with the classic sights and sounds of a hockey match. 

He watched the screen intensely to catch sight of his father, which rendered difficult with the bad camera quality and fast skating men. But the announcer’s voice kept right up with the action, declaring every pass, every shot, and every goal. 

When Lukas had gotten a glimpse at his dad’s number, he turned all his focus to him, seeing his every move. One minute of the game Lukas Sr. was in control of the puck, the next it was gone, slipped away by an opposing player. Lukas Sr. threw down his stick, grabbed onto the other guy, and promptly slammed him into the glass wall behind him. What played out next was the meanest fight Lukas himself had ever seen—the announcer was going wild. When it was all over, when the refs had pulled the elder Bondevik away, his foe was bloody and shocked and borderline unconscious. Even with the poor quality, Lukas thought the guy looked a lot like Mathias had after that first game, and all of a sudden he felt sick. 

He trudged through the final period of the game, then put on another tape, and then another. Each game was a win, and Lukas watched as the young version of his father pumped his fists over his head and slid across the ice on his knees, celebrating every victory. But he saw something else, too. Every game, with its goals and fist pumps, had its fair share of tripping, slashing, hitting, and continuous penalties, all committed by the one and only. The one and only, of whom everyone said Lukas was becoming, or already was.

Lukas shut the TV off, not bothering to eject the tape. He leaned back into the couch cushions, listening to the quiet nothingness of his house. The sun had set a while ago, and he was now submerged in darkness. This is what Mathias had seen the whole time, and now he was starting to see it as well. His father wasn’t the idol he thought he was, not nearly as nice. He had always been loving toward his family, that was true, but Lukas saw in the videos that he didn’t come to play- he came to dominate. 

Lukas felt guilt weighing heavily on his shoulders, as if it was forcing him to sink deeper into the couch. The interview was a bad idea, he knew when Arthur had told him to let go of his captain dream, but now he could admit it to himself. He knew he needed to make yet another apology to Mathias, not to satisfy Arthur, but to ease the remorse in his heart and his head. 

He languidly pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped on the Instagram icon. _Just send him a direct message and be sincere. Tell him that you’re sorry, he was right, and you’ll try to get the interview taken down._ When he found the right profile, he tapped on it to contact him, but the screen came up blank. The page was white and empty, the only words being ‘user not found’. Peculiar, because despite rarely using social media himself, Lukas was perfectly aware of who was active online and who was not, and he knew that Mathias often used the platform to promote games and even the occasional cheesy mirror selfie. So how could his account be gone now? Although he immediately knew why. 

Without thinking, he rose quickly from the couch and stumbled through the black hallway until he made it to the kitchen. He roamed around in the darkness for a moment, feeling for his keys where he left him on the counter. Once he heard the jangle and felt the metal, he snatched them up and made for the door. It wasn’t until he passed the sign on the highway welcoming him into South Dakota that he even realized where he was going. 

…

When Lukas pulled up to Mathias’s house, he didn’t seem to be home. The windows were dark and the driveway was empty, but Lukas still got out of his car anyway. He walked to the door, not flinching this time as the outdoor sensor light detected him. It seemed hopeless, seeing that Mathias wasn’t there, but he raised his fist to the door and knocked, five or six quick rasps against the wood. He waited for a minute, then two, then three, until he concluded that he was out of luck, and that he’d have to head back. 

He turned from the door, but instead of walking back to his car, he sunk down on the cold steps in front of the house. He couldn’t quite figure it out, but he couldn’t muster up the courage to leave without seeing Mathias, and he found himself looking desperately at each seldom car that passed by, hoping one would pull into the drive. 

He was about to give it up when his hands started going numb when the door clicked behind him and creaked open. Lukas spun his head around to see the face of a New Ace peeking out at him. The door was only wide enough for his head to fit through, but Lukas could tell that the hallway behind him was definitely dark, like Mathias wanted people to assume he was away. 

“What do you want?” Mathias asked, although his tone made it sound more like a bothered statement.

“I didn’t think you were home,” Lukas replied, rising from his place on the steps. He made no move toward Mathias, and Mathias made no move to open the door more. 

“Car’s in the garage,” he explained. “Why are you here?”

Lukas sighed deeply. “For the same reason I came last time. Because I royally fucked things up for you, and I needed to own up to them.” It was embarrassing. He had never been one for apologies before, but he supposed it was better than being eaten alive by guilt. 

“I didn’t want to bother you,” he went on. “I was originally going to send you a message online, but I saw everything was gone, and got kind of…worried.” 

A frozen hand was playing with his beard again, and he kept his eyes averted from Mathias. The door had opened slightly more, but not much, with Mathias now leaning against the frame.

“I deactivated my account,” Mathias told him. “I didn’t want to hear anymore bigots spew their bullshit.”

Lukas felt inconceivably horrible for putting Mathias in such a position, and willingly, too. “I’m so sorry,” he said slowly. “You didn't get, like, death threats, did you?”

“Oh, sure. Nothing new, but nonetheless, exhausting.”

“I’m so sorry,” Lukas said again, hoping his sincerity was coming across. “I should not have done that interview, I shouldn’t have tried to retaliate, I—“

“I shouldn’t have said those things to you,” Mathias interjected. “You’re grieving. You don’t need to be brought down even more.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. It’s on me. And, you were kind of right, in the things you said about him.”

“Doesn’t mean I should’ve said them.”

“So, I guess we both suck,” Lukas joked, and was delighted when Mathias laughed. 

“Look, I’m gonna do whatever I can to get that article taken down. I’ll tell people to get off your back,” he said.

“Thanks,” replied Mathias. “I’ll work on getting them to take mine down too. So we’re even.”

“Even,” Lukas repeated. They shook on it.

After a moment: “Do you want to stay the night? I feel bad that you drove all the way out here again. You can crash on the couch.”

Lukas thought about the nice gesture, but shook his head. “Thanks, but I ought to head back. I have practice tomorrow morning.”

“I get it. Drive safe, Lukas.”

“See you around,” was his departing message, as he made it down the steps and to his car. He noticed as the engine began to run that Mathias remained at the door, not retreating inside like he had done last time. Lukas met his eye, and before leaving, raised a single hand to briefly wave through the windshield. He was delighted when Mathias waved back, and the smile that had grown on his face remained until he was far away from Pierre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Officially past the half-way mark! This has been really fun so far.
> 
> -Brok


	7. Heart-to-Heart

Lukas didn’t actually end up driving back to his home that night. Rather, he took Basch’s advice and drove to the outskirts of Bismarck, to his mother’s house. He felt bad about arriving so late in the evening without even calling her, but she was waiting in the door for him before he had the chance to open his car door, so he supposed she couldn’t have been upset with him for dropping in out of the blue.

They didn’t talk at all—just shared a simple hug before he found his way through the darkened house to sleep in his childhood bedroom. He’d had to sleep in his jeans and sweatshirt, but after the drive from Pierre, he hardly minded, allowing drowsiness to take over once his body hit the mattress.

He woke early the next morning after tossing and turning in the twin-sized bed that he didn’t fit in anymore, and upon entering the living room, was met with his brother lounging across the sofa, using one of the armrests as a pillow with his feet dangling over the other end. He was watching some show or another on the TV, but without any volume. Sounds of sizzling and the bang of pots and pans came from the kitchen, no doubt their mom making breakfast for them all. Lukas stared at his brother until he finally made eye contact, lazily turning his head with a look of mild annoyance.

“What?” Emil said tiredly.

“What are you doing here?”

“My mom lives here, Stranger,” he gestured around the living room. “What are you doing here?”

Lukas ignored him, letting it go and venturing into the kitchen. He stood watching his mother stack pancakes onto three plates. When she turned and saw him, she exhaled and put down the spatula, striding over the kitchen tile toward him. She hugged him again, and he hugged her back, this time longer than the previous night. Lukas let his chin rest on the top of her head, where her blonde roots were beginning to gray. He hadn’t hugged her—seen her, he realized—since the funeral.

“I’m glad you decided to visit,” she said as she backed away from him, holding onto his arms and squeezing before letting go and returning to the stack of pancakes on the counter. Lukas didn’t answer, only followed her to the counter to help dig out the syrup and butter from the back of the many drawers and cabinets.

Solveig Bondevik had always been a supporter, whether she wanted to be or not. She had stood on the side of the lake and cheered on her boys as they stumbled and slipped on the ice. She had stood alongside her husband through his hockey years, and more so when Lukas and Emil began their careers. Truth be told, she didn’t like hockey at all, and despised the impact that Lukas Sr. had left on their children. But she knew she couldn’t deny them their happiness, so she stood by and let them play. Lukas knew that she was aware of his initial suspension, had probably seen Mathias’s interview and Lukas’s as well, and yet he knew that he would still be welcomed in her home. It seemed as if Solveig just didn’t have an angry bone in her body.

When the pancakes were doused in syrup and butter (with more syrup for Emil and more butter for Lukas, while Solveig’s balanced them out), mother and son carried the plates into the living room. Lukas held Emil’s plate out for him to grab, and when he sat up to take hold of it, Lukas used the opportunity to steal a spot on the couch. He laughed as Emil groaned. Solveig sat in the chair across from them. 

They ate in silence for a moment, collectively ignoring the TV. Lukas all but devoured his breakfast; skipping dinner to drive to Mathias’s last night left him famished. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and heard Solveig groan.

“What?” he asked, somewhat exasperated.

Solveig stood from the chair and collected Lukas’s empty plate, stacking it on top of her’s, before moving to the kitchen.

“You’re just like your father,” she stated, annoyed yet endearing. “I thought I raised you better than this.” She was chuckling to herself which made Lukas laugh, too, despite the discomfort he now felt when compared to his father. 

Emil, still working at his own dish, nudged his brother with his knee. “Speaking of dad,” he started, pausing to swallow his food. “What the fuck was up with that interview? Like, did all that actually happen?”

“Language,” Solveig scolded over the run of water in the sink.

“Sorry,” Emil apologized half-heartedly. 

Lukas leaned back against the couch. “Yeah. But it was stupid of me. I went back and talked to him—again—so now we’re fine.”

“Wait,” Emil shifted himself so that he faced Lukas more easily. “Wait. You’ve been to this guy’s house twice? Like inside his house?”

Lukas gave him a weird look. He didn’t know why Emil suddenly cared about this. “The first time, yeah. He invited me in for coffee.”

“Coffee? That sounds like a date.”

“Huh? No it doesn’t.” Lukas scoffed and turned his turn away.

“Are you blushing?” Emil reached for his face, and Lukas tried to fight him off, to no avail. “I can’t believe that made you blush!”

“Would you quit it?” Lukas playfully shoved him in the shoulder. If they were younger, they’d be on the floor wrestling around the coffee table. Much too big for that now, though. He guessed shoulder shoves on couches would have to do.

“I’m serious,” Emil laughed. “What if the two of you got together? Do you like him?”

Solveig: “What are you boys talking about?”

“Shut up!”

“Excuse me?”

“I was talking to Emil!” He glared at his brother, who was quiet now, but holding his laughter behind a sly smile. Emil stood to carry his plate to the kitchen, when Lukas stopped him by the arm. Emil had kept his secret for over a decade, and he wasn’t going to let his loud mouth and goofy personality expose him to their mother now. “Don’t say anything to her,” he practically whispered.

“Relax, I wouldn’t do that,” said Emil, and Lukas hesitantly let his arm go. True to his word, he left his plate on the counter by the sink without saying anything and slipped from the kitchen, leaving Solveig glaring holes in the back of her son’s head.

“You know, Emil, you’re twenty-six. I’m sure you’re more than capable of cleaning your own plate. Who does the dishes at your house, hmm?”

“My dishwasher,” Emil deadpanned, then offered her a smile, hopeful for forgiveness for his crimes. 

She let him off the hook and he rejoined Lukas in the living room, this time taking his seat in the chair that Solveig previously sat in. He propped his feet up on the coffee table and reclined, watching the silent television for a few moments before turning his attention back to Lukas as he was standing up.

“Where are you going? Got a hot date or something?” Emil smirked at him, clearly trying to embarrass him more. Seriously, what was Emil’s deal with his non-existent love life? He rolled his eyes at his brother.

“I have practice,” he stated as-matter-of-factly, then walked into the kitchen. He really didn’t have practice until eleven, and it was only seven-thirty, but he wanted to get away from Emil’s taunts and teasing. He grabbed the dishes that Solveig had just dried and placed them in the cabinet on the wall. He turned and hugged her goodbye, resting his chin on her head once more, before pulling away.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” he said to her.

“You’re always welcome, Lukas. Stay out of trouble from now on, okay?”

“I will,” he promised her, and went to leave. He remembered to flick Emil in the back of the head as he passed him, grabbed his shoes by the door, and made his exit. 

The wind was biting and his cheeks immediately felt the cold burn. No matter how long he had lived in North Dakota (his whole life), he never got over just how cold the fall and winter months could get. He shivered until he got his car’s heat turned up, and even then he shivered. Breathing into his hands for extra measure, he checked his mirrors and headed home.

…

The drive was short and silent. Lukas contemplated turning on the radio, but didn’t, instead allowing his mind to reflect on Emil’s words to him before, the giddy nature he presented when Lukas’s face had gone red at the mention of Mathias.

“Coffee? That sounds like a date,” Emil had said. Initially, Lukas disagreed. _It was just coffee_ , he thought. _You can have coffee with anyone, it doesn’t necessarily mean anything_. Although, the more he pondered, he couldn’t help but ask himself why Mathias had invited him in in the first place. Earlier that evening, in the hall by the vending machine, Mathias had given Lukas the cold shoulder, and then later on treated him hospitably. Why the change of heart? 

Then Emil’s next questions: “What if the two of you got together? Do you like him?”

Yeah, Lukas scoffed to himself, like Mathias would ever develop a crush on the guy that threatened to knock the rest of his teeth out, and then almost succeed in doing so. As for himself, he told himself no, he didn’t like Mathias. He liked him as a person, but nothing more. And yet, his mind wandered back to sharing coffee at Mathias’s dining room table and talking into the early hours of the morning. It had been very nice, he recalled, and quite domestic. He supposed it did seem a bit like a date, after the apologies and before the blowup, that is. He doubted that had been Mathias’s intention, though. 

Lukas pulled onto his street, a long road with a cul-de-sac at the end. His house, arguably the focal point of the street, or at least in his opinion, was positioned farthest away, at the edge of the dead end. As he approached, he noticed a car sitting idle in his driveway—silver. He wondered if he was going insane, until he pulled closer and saw the figure sitting on his front steps wearing a dark green coat, jeans, and white sneakers that he unmistakably saw piled on a rug in a small hallway. And bright blond hair that stood as tall as the man himself and blew erratically in the wind. Lukas couldn’t fucking believe it. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he asked Mathias as he shut his car door. It wasn’t a malicious question, but one of genuine curiosity, yet apparently unable to be asked without Lukas’s fondness for curse words. 

Mathias stood from the stairs and moved to meet Lukas on the pavement. He didn’t seem offset by his question; in fact, he was grinning, like he couldn’t be more happy to see him.

“You’ve gone all the way to my place twice to talk to me, I thought I’d come to you this time.”

“For what? Is everything alright?” Lukas asked, mentally kicking himself for sounding worried. 

“No, yeah, everything’s fine!” Mathias said. “I just wanted to…thank you. Properly. For checking up on me, and all.”

His voice trailed off, and was sheepish in tone, and Lukas felt himself smile.

“You didn’t have to come all the way up here to say that,” he told him.

Mathias shrugged. “You didn’t have to go all the way to Pierre for me, but you did. Twice. Which I do appreciate. Also, I am not touching social media for a while yet, so this was the best I could do.” He gestured at the house behind him. 

Lukas felt a twitch of guilt from Mathias saying he couldn’t use social media, knowing the reason was the fault of his own. Mathias didn’t seem upset or pitiful, however, and he was still grinning like an idiot. 

“How did you know where I live?” Lukas asked suddenly. It wasn’t as if Mathias had followed him home or anything.

Mathias chuckled. “I contacted your coach. I asked if I could have your address so I could talk to you, and he forked it right over. Nice guy—doesn’t care about your privacy, though.”

At that, Lukas laughed aloud. Of course Arthur would do that. He wanted the drama over and done with as soon as possible, and probably didn’t care about how they went about it. 

“Oh man, he hates me,” Lukas laughed, wiping a tear from his eye.

“Who could hate you?” Mathias questioned.

“You, for starters,” he answered, ignoring how the question sounded a bit like flirtatious banter. 

“I never hated you. I was pissed at first, but, I can’t hate anyone.” A pause. “Besides, we’re good now, yeah?”

“All good.”

“Good.” They giggled amongst themselves for a moment. When silence rose over them, Lukas was the one who broke it.

“Hug it out?” he asked, holding his arms out at half-length as invitation. It felt ridiculous, but it felt right. Whether his face was red from embarrassment or wind burn, he wasn’t sure.

Mathias’s grin became even wider, if such a thing was possible. “Like men,” he replied as he brought Lukas in close. The envelopment eliminated some of the cold that had been torturing him and he found himself unwilling to let go. But he worried about the public display, of some neighbors peeking through blinds, or an unsuspecting journalist hiding out somewhere. He pulled back from Mathias, and immediately missed the warmth he provided. 

Mathias seemed to feel the same, if his body movements had anything to say about it. He shoved his freezing hands deep into his pockets and tried his best to tuck his chin into the top of his coat to keep warm. 

Lukas checked the time on his phone. Still plenty of time before practice. There was no rush to end this encounter of theirs. 

Looking back up at Mathias, who was just about shuffling from foot to shake off the cold. “Do you want to come inside?” he asked him, and was immediately met with a quick nod. He chuckled again, and reached for his keys. 

“Follow me, then.”

…

“Coffee?” Lukas offered, just like Mathias had to him previously. He didn’t need to see the nod or hear the “That’d be great, thanks,” to know the answer, already in the kitchen starting a pot. When it was finished, he handed the first mug over to Mathias, who immediately went to sipping it. Lukas grimaced. 

“Why don’t you at least try putting something in it?” he asked.

“Why don’t you try not putting something in it?” Mathias retorted, raising his eyebrows at him.

“Touché.” Lukas reached for his bowl of sugar. 

The morning passed by. It was much like the night at Mathias’s, where they drank coffee and got along well. They sat on the living room couch with their cups in their laps. It had been embarrassing at first, when they entered the room and Lukas realized he had left his father’s belongings scattered across the floor, with a VHS tape still stuck in the player. He profusely apologized for the disorganization and moved to throw the loose items back into the box, but Mathias didn’t seem to care.

“I’m still so sorry for what I said about him,” he said to Lukas.

“Why?” was the response. After seeing the recorded games, Lukas understood what Mathias had meant, and forgot the grudge he had held against him. His father wasn’t perfect, and he’s allowed to be criticized, dead or alive. 

“I think…” Mathias started, then paused, considering his words. “That story about my father and the wooden stick, that’s pretty vulnerable for me. And hearing how great your dad was to you… I think I just wanted to get back on top, if that makes sense. But that wasn’t cool of me.” 

“It’s okay. My sins definitely outweigh yours,” Lukas said with a bit of humor in his voice. Mathias smiled at his coffee. 

When Lukas checked the time and realized he’d be late for practice if he waited any longer, his heart sank. He genuinely enjoyed Mathias’s company and didn’t want to cut their meeting short. Biting his lower lip, he stared at the numbers on the screen, until Mathias picked up on what was happening.

“Do you have to go?” he asked, his voice soft and, maybe Lukas was imagining, disappointed. 

“I have practice,” he said, like it was the worst thing in the world, because right now it was.

Mathias nodded understandably. “I had today off. I guess, I’ll, um, head out then.”

“No!” Lukas shouted, surprising both Mathias and himself. He tried to regain composure, unsure where he was even going with his exclamation. He just didn’t want Mathias to leave. 

“I mean,” he continued. “We keep driving these long distances just to talk for a little bit. I’ll be back before dinner time, I can cook pasta or something, if you want to stay. You don’t have to, if you have better things to be doing, that’s fine. I just thought—“ he cut himself off with a breath once he realized he was rambling. 

Before he could worry about if what he proposed was crazy or too much, Mathias reassured him. “I don’t mind waiting,” he said. “If you don’t mind me staying in your house.”

“I’ve got no concerns,” he said as he stood from the couch. “I guess I’ll see you later.” He recognized how awkward it was to abandon a friend (they were friends now, right?) at his house, but he couldn’t afford to anger Arthur anymore this season by being late to practice. But he also couldn’t afford to let Mathias slip away when they were finally on good terms with each other. 

“I’ll be here,” Mathias promised, an ever-present grin on his face as Lukas made it out the door. 

He hated Emil for being right sometimes. 

…

He returned around dinner time, as he said he would, to a mostly dark house. The only light was coming from the kitchen, from which he could also hear the sound of water boiling on the stove. Was he dreaming? Did he hit his head during practice and fall into a domestic fantasy land?

Entering the kitchen, he paused as he watched Mathias standing in front of the stove—his stove!—and snapping spaghetti into the pot. After a moment or two he must have felt like he was being watched, because he abruptly spun around and noticed Lukas standing with one hand on the island. 

“Oh, hey!” Mathias said as a way of greeting. “Sorry, I’m probably overstepping, aren’t I? I just didn’t want you to have to do all the work when you came home, so…” He rubbed at the back of his neck, the tips of his ears turning red. Lukas couldn’t deny that it was cute. 

“No, no, you’re fine,” Lukas reassured him. He knew he left Mathias alone without explaining what he could and could not do with his spare time, so he was secretly glad he had decided to busy himself. “That’s really nice of you, and I appreciate it. I’m sorry I had to ditch you earlier. You could’ve gone home if you wanted to,” Lukas added.

“Nah,” Mathias replied, stirring the noodles in the pot. “I’d just end up having dinner alone, so this is better.”

Lukas smiled at Mathias’s back, not saying anything. Silence brewed between them, until Mathias spoke again: “How was practice?”

Lukas moved from his place at the island toward the refrigerator, deciding to make himself useful (to his own standards, anyway) by grabbing two beers from the bottom shelf. “It was good, actually,” he said, head buried in the cold box. “Got a lot of good work in today.”

He emerged and shut the door with an elbow, then rummaged around a few drawers until he found the bottle opener. Once the caps were off, he offered one of the bottles to Mathias.

“I’m hoping that you drink,” he said to him expectantly.

Mathias looked at him appalled. “I play professional hockey!” he yelled in mock anger. He took the beer from Lukas’s outstretched hand. “Of course I drink!”

They laughed together then, and Lukas wondered what this must look like to anyone else. Coming home to dinner being prepared, laughing together in the kitchen, talking about their days—it all seemed very domestic. Romantic, even. The scene that lay before him described married life, not that of two barely-friends who were simply supposed to be hanging out. 

Lukas took a swig from his bottle. Perhaps wine would be better for a setting such as this, he thought, but let go shortly after as he retrieved his nicer dinner plates while Mathias was working on straining the pasta. 

When the food was ready, they ate at the kitchen island, next to each other. At first they ate in comfortable silence, the only audible sound the rhythmic tapping of Mathias’s fingers against the granite. Lukas watched out of the corner of his eye, the tapping becoming hypnotic, until Mathias broke the trance by speaking, ceasing all previous movements.

“So, do you have practice tomorrow?”

Lukas took his time chewing before he answered. “No. I have tomorrow off.” 

“So do I,” Mathias commented.

“Two days off in a row?” Lukas responded, twirling noodles on his fork. “Damn, I gotta get drafted to the Aces!”

Mathias gave a hearty chuckle and sipped his beer. “It’s pretty sweet. But working for Abel is not easy.”

“Arthur works us like dogs.”

“Does he truly hate you?”

“I don’t know,” Lukas sighed. “I wanted to make captain. I want to make captain, because ours is retiring, and supposedly he was going to have me fill the position. Until I fucked it, you know, with everything that happened…”

Mathias had stopped eating, and had turned in his seat to look at Lukas. “I thought you said practice was good today,” he inquired.

“It was certainly better than yesterday’s, but I know he’s still not happy with me and is not going to change his mind any time soon.”

A hum of understanding came from Mathias. “I’m sorry,” he said at last. “I feel like I’m costing you your dream.”

“Don’t be sorry.” It was Lukas’s turn to angle himself to look directly at Mathias. “This is not your fault. It’s mine.”

When Mathias looked unconvinced, Lukas drew in a breath and released it slowly. “Look, I’m not great at heart-to-hearts. But none of this is your fault. I’m the one who started the fight, I’m the one who jabbed back at you when I didn’t need to, and I don’t want you feeling guilty for any of it. I’ve been a huge jackass lately and I’m trying to own up to it.

“But you,” Lukas continued. “You shouldn’t feel sorry because you are the nicest person in the league. I mean, seriously, I beat you up, and you cooked me dinner. I don’t get it.”

Mathias flushed from the compliments. “I told you, I can’t hold grudges. Can’t hate anyone.”

“I know. You’re insanely forgiving, and I admire you for that. You’re a good guy, Mat, and probably the bravest I know.” 

Mathias looked at him, puzzled. “Brave? For what?”

Lukas took a sip of his drink to fix his dry throat, questioning whether he should go through with his thoughts or just tell Mathias to forget it, that it’s not important. Except it was important. 

“For being yourself,” he decided on, no longer looking his friend in the eye. Instead, he stared down at his half-eaten food. “You get a lot of shit because of who you are, but you don’t back down or change for anyone. That’s a good thing. I wish I had the guts to do that.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Now or never, he supposed. “I thought about telling you before, back at your place, but I didn’t because…” he thought for a moment. “I couldn’t.”

There was quiet, besides his heart hammering in his ears. Time to rip off the Band-Aid. 

“I just have to say it. I’m gay.”

He waited for Mathias’s response, which didn’t come quick enough in his opinion. Seconds felt like hours as they passed, and Lukas still kept his eyes averted. 

“Yeah?” Mathias said at last. A curious remark, that was it. Lukas wasn’t quite sure what he was expecting, but he admitted that it was more than just “Yeah?”

“Mmm-hmm,” he affirmed, risking a glance.

“That’s great,” Mathias said next, in a gentle tone, like one soothing a child. “I take it I’m the only person who knows?”

“My brother knows. But that’s it.”

“Well, I’m glad you trust me enough to tell me. Seriously, this is great. I know it’s not easy.”

Lukas shook his head. It certainly was not easy. He knew Mathias wouldn’t react negatively (how hypocritical would that be?) to him coming out, but his heart rate had yet to settle. He was happy to have said it, to have been honest with Mathias—the man deserved it, Lukas thought, after having been so kind and open to him—but it didn’t feel like what he imagined. There was no weight lifted from his chest, no huge sigh of relief—he didn’t know what to feel. Should he be crying, or smiling? He was doing neither, simply staring at the countertop, wondering how to shift the conversation to something less vulnerable.

“Are you okay?” Mathias asked, still using the same gentle tone from before. Lukas quite enjoyed hearing it.

“Maybe,” Lukas replied. “I think so.”

“Do you want a hug?” he asked, chuckling, a low rumble in his chest. 

Lukas finally cracked a smile, remembering their hug from that morning, out in the cold. It had felt natural then, and it still seemed natural now. 

“Sure,” he answered Mathias, and within a second he was wrapped in an embrace. It was more uncomfortable than before, seeing as they were both sitting down, but Mathias held on for a long moment, and despite the awkward angle, Lukas didn’t want it to end.

When it did end, Mathias kept a hand on his shoulder, and moved his other one to the top of the island, where Lukas’s lay. He didn’t grab his hand or hold it, just rested his over it. Lukas didn’t dare to move, being quite content with the contact. He noted how warm Mathias’s hands were. 

“You’re a great person, Lukas,” Mathias said to him. “I hope you believe that.”

And for the time being, Lukas did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you Yeg, and thank you readers.
> 
> -Brok

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> And special thanks to my friend for editing :)
> 
> -Brok


End file.
